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THE 

WADDINGTON CIPHER 


Books by William Johnston 


“Limpy": The Boy Who Felt Neglected 

The Apartment Next Door 

The Fun of Being a Fat Man 

The House of Whispers 

The Mystery at the Ritsmore 

The Tragedy at the Beach Club 

The Waddington Cipher 




The 

Waddington Cipher 

By 

William Johnston 



Garden City New York 

Doubleday, Page & Company 

1923 




















COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED 8TATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 


SEP 25 ’23 



©C1A700029 

fVt'* -‘■v** 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

A Call From the Past . 

PAGE 

I 

II. 

The Best-Laid Plans .... 

18 

III. 

Strangers in the Dark . 

38 

IV. 

Inside the Fence. 

53 

V. 

A Woman Listens. 

70 

VI. 

A Story of Hate. 

• 85 

VII. 

What Mr. Jessup Knew . 

100 

VIII. 

Buried Treasure. 

• 1 15 

IX. 

Several More Puzzles . . . 

. 132 

. X. 

Plainly an Error. 

148 

XI. 

The Waddington Way . . . 

. 163 

XII. 

One Plan Upset ...... 

. 178 

XIII. 

A Deal Is Proposed . 

. 191 

XIV. 

A Journey Is Planned 

. 203 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XV. 

An Exciting Evening 

PAGE 

• • • 213 

XVI. 

But Where Was Anne? 

. 227 

XVII. 

At the Journey’s End 

. . . 243 

XVIII. 

A Secret Is Told . 

• • • 255 

XIX. 

A Family Conclave 

. . . 267 

XX. 

The Cipher Solved . 

... • • 279 

XXI. 

Discovered—the Ghost . 

C \ 

00 

• 

• 

• 



THE 

WADDINGTON CIPHER 


CHAPTER I 

A CALL FROM THE PAST 

F ATE’S Messenger, disguised as a half- 
grown boy from the telegraph office, ar¬ 
riving at the Studios Building at three 
o’clock in the morning, found nothing to stop his 
progress or to hinder the carrying out of his por¬ 
tentous mission. The elevator attendant, long 
habituated to the tenants’ custom of turning night 
into early morning, after a mere casual glance at 
the address on the yellow envelope, sleepily took 
the urchin to the twelfth floor and silently pointed 
to a door on the left. 

The boy, a cigarette butt in his yellowed teeth, 
the envelope clutched in one grimy hand, rang the 
bell once, twice. He could hear from within the 


2 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


babel of many voices, the laughter of women, the 
tinkling of ice in glasses, and the notes of a piano. 
As his ring brought no answer, and noting that 
the door was slightly ajar, he pushed it boldly open. 

Hardened though the youngster had become by 
night service, the scene of hilarious revelry he saw 
through the entry hall in the great room beyond so 
shook him from his blase stoicism that he stood 
there for a moment gaping. 

“Some party!” he muttered. 

In one corner stood a table littered with a pro¬ 
fusion of what had an hour or two before been a 
variety of good things to eat. A ragged quarter of 
a great birthday cake, its guttering candles now 
carelessly heaped beside it, symbolized the occa¬ 
sion of the merriment. Bottles and glasses were 
everywhere. At the piano sat a somewhat wabbly 
youth pounding out the latest jazz while half-a- 
dozen couples in evening dress wriggled and jigged 
about the room. Others, already exhausted by 
the strenuous revelry, most of both sexes mani¬ 
festly affected by the profusion of stimulants, sat 
about in too intimate groupings, laughing shrilly 


A CALL FROM THE PAST 


3 

at inane jokes, talking thickly, bantering each 
other, aiming many shafts of early morning wit 
at their host. 

“Mix us another one, Waddy,” a girl from the 
Follies called out. “It’s your twenty-fifth birth¬ 
day. Let’s have twenty-five apiece and make a 
night of it.” 

As the boy stood taking in the scene a tall blond 
chap scrambled up from the hassock on which, he 
had been sprawled, revealing as he did so a height 
of fully six feet. His face, handsome enough in 
its way, at the moment had a bored, world-weary 
expression, and while his well-cut clothes revealed 
a vigorous frame, there were dark circles under 
his eyes that told plainly of far too many other 
nights spent as this one had been. 

“Here, boy,” he called out. “What is it?” 

“Mr. Hurd,” said the messenger, extending his 
telegram. 

“I’m Mr. Hurd,” he answered as he carelessly 
tore open the envelope. 

As he glanced at the yellow slip it had contained 
a puzzled look crept into his face. He stood look- 


4 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


ing at the bit of paper as if trying to comprehend 
its meaning. The music had stopped and the 
dancers, as they paused, caught sight of their host’s 
face and noted his apparent confusion. 

“What’s it all about, Waddy?” one of the girls 
cried out, as she did so snatching the telegram from 
his hand. “Why such a gloom?” 

Thinking it merely some belated message of 
birthday congratulation, the rest of the party came 
crowding around. 

“Read it out loud,” someone called. 

“Yes, go on. Read it,” came in chorus from 
the rest of the merry-makers. 

Her forehead puckering into a puzzled frown 
the girl obeyed, reading it slowly, word by word, as 
if trying to decipher its meaning. 

James Waddington Hurd 

If you would prevent murder being done come at once 
to Ortonville. 

Henry T. Jessup. 

“Why, Waddy,” she exclaimed as she finished 
reading it. “What a funny message to get! 
What does it mean? ” 


A CALL FROM THE PAST 


5 

“Yeh, what’s all the shooting for?” gurgled 
the youth at the piano, laughing inanely as if it was 
something original and witty that he had said. 

For a moment Hurd did not answer. Puzzled 
as he had been on his first reading of the message, 
he had been even more perplexed to account for the 
amazing effect its reading aloud had produced on 
one of his guests. She had happened to be sitting 
in a corner just within the line of his vision as 
Jessie Bray had read it. As Jessie had neared the 
end of the message—he thought it was at the 
word Ortonville, perhaps at the signature, he 
couldn’t be sure which—a startled look, almost of 
fear, had sprung into this one girl’s eyes. With a 
quick motion she had crushed her handkerchief 
against her lips as if to stifle a scream, and now 
white-faced, plainly terrified, she was sitting there 
in the corner, bolt upright, watching him intently. 

The rest of the crowd came thronging about him, 
their curiosity aroused, plying him with eager 
questions, but still Hurd stood there paying little 
heed to them, wondering about that girl and why 
the reading of the telegram had so startled her. 



6 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


Who was she? 

Someone—he could not remember who—had 
brought her to the party. There was nothing un¬ 
usual about that. Informality was the rule at 
these affairs. It was not at all uncommon for a 
dozen guests to be present who had never even 
seen the host before. Any group or groups that 
might have accidentally assembled at any one 
of the supper clubs was just as likely as not to 
have someone say: 

“Come on, let’s all go over to Waddy Hurd’s 
place,” and that was all there was to it. Most of 
the time nobody even bothered with introduc¬ 
tions after they arrived. If any one had presented 
him to this girl or had told him her name he had 
failed to remember it. 

Several times during the evening he had found 
himself studying her curiously and wondering 
about her. In some way she had seemed to him 
different, out of place. 

A slender little dark creature, with brilliant 
brown eyes, more distinctively dressed than most 
of the others, he had noticed that practically all 


A CALL FROM THE PAST 


7 

of the time she had sat shyly alone in her corner 
taking nothing to drink as various liquors were 
passed around. Once, though, he had glimpsed her 
dancing with one of the men, and seeming to be 
vivaciously enjoying it. 

There was something different about her. It 
was nothing she had done or said that had im¬ 
pressed him, for he was certain he had not talked 
with her. Just looking at her made him think of 
outdoors, of the woods, of the clean, bracing air 
of the open. Her very presence there seemed to 
have aroused in him a vague but growing distaste 
for the company, its conduct and the sort of life 
it typified. Were revels like this, he found him¬ 
self wondering, really worth while? Were they 
even amusing? He told himself that he was sick 
of it all, night after night the same senseless rep¬ 
etition of many other nights—dinner with some 
of “the bunch,” an evening at some silly musical 
show, a supper party afterward, dancing and gen¬ 
erally too much to drink, and the next morning— 
or more often noon—nothing left of it but a bad 
taste in the mouth. 




8 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

Meanwhile inquiries were being flung at him: 

“Who’s it from?” 

“ Where’s Ortonville? ” 

“What’s it all about?” 

“Who’s Henry T. Jessup?” 

At last Hurd raised his hand for silence and a 
hush fell over the group, broken only by the crash 
of a glass knocked over by the pianist. 

“Fm just as much puzzled as any of you,” he 
announced. “I have no idea who Henry T. 
Jessup is and I have never been in Ortonville. I 
haven’t the slightest notion whose life it is that is 
in danger. I hope it isn’t mine.” 

“It’s a joke someone is trying to pull on you. 
That’s what it is,” the pianist announced. “We 
should worry. Come on, gang, hit it up.” 

But somehow the message—perhaps it was the 
sinister hint of murder that it mentioned—had put 
a damper on the merriment. No one responded 
to the pianist’s invitation and presently the girls 
began slipping away to the dressing room for their 
wraps. A few minutes later the party was all 
over and Hurd found himself at the door, absent- 




A CALL FROM THE PAST 


9 


mindedly receiving the adieus of his departing 
guests. As by twos and threes they slipped out 
with the conventional words of parting, he found 
the little dark-eyed stranger at his side. 

For just one instant her hand was slipped into 
his as she looked up into his face. 

“You’re going there—to Ortonville, of course?” 
she questioned in a tense whisper. 

Utterly taken back at the unexpected query, 
Hurd stammered confusedly as he gazed down 
into her upturned face, looked into those wonder¬ 
ful brown eyes of hers just now lighted up with 
eager interest. 

“Why—why—” he began—“you see—I don’t 
understand—I don’t know—I haven’t thought 
anything about it. I don’t know whom the tele¬ 
gram came from nor what it means.” 

Steadily her eyes held his—held them challeng- 
ingly, almost tauntingly. 

“If I were a man-” she breathed. 

“I’m going,” Waddy blurted out hastily, much 
to his own surprise, his decision hardly forming be¬ 
fore it was on his lips. “Of course I’m going.” 








IO 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


Before he realized it, she had freed her hand 
quickly from his and had vanished into the hall, 
slipping away quickly as another group of depart¬ 
ing guests descended on him with their good-nights. 
Rudely disregarding everything they were saying, 
he stood for an instant stupidly staring in the di¬ 
rection in which the girl had gone, then crushing 
through the throng about him he ran to the ele¬ 
vator with the intention of intercepting her. 

He was too late. 

She had gone. The car already had descended, 
carrying her away from him. Impetuously he 
started back to his rooms with the intention of 
telephoning down to have her stopped in the lower 
hall. He must speak further with her. He must 
find out what she meant. Then all at once it came 
to him how ridiculous such a proceeding as he had 
contemplated would be. He did not even know 
her name. With difficulty recovering his com¬ 
posure he turned again to his duties as host, though 
all the while he was thinking of her. He must find 
out who she was. He must ascertain in what way 
she was concerned in the strange telegram that 


A CALL FROM THE PAST 


ii 


had come to him. He must discover why she had 
been so eager, insistent even, that he should obey 
the mysterious summons. 

Impatiently he waited for the departure of the 
two or three who lingered after the others. He 
wanted to be alone, to be rid of them all. He 
wanted to have time to think what it all might 
mean. A sense of relief, of freedom came to him. 
As the door closed on the last of them, with a 
quick, disgusted glance at the reeking disorder his 
guests had left behind them, he hastily turned off 
the lights as if to shut out the unpleasant sight 
and entered his bedroom. 

Throwing off his coat and freeing his tired feet 
from his pumps, Hurd dropped down on the edge 
of the bed and sat there for many minutes ponder¬ 
ing over the last hour’s strange occurrences. He 
had been entirely truthful when he had told his 
guests that the name of Henry T. Jessup was 
nothing to him and that he had no idea what the 
telegram meant. The suggestion that it might be 
an attempt at a joke he dismissed as unworthy of 
consideration. The very brevity of the message 


12 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


and its simple wording seemed evidence of its 
sincerity. 

“ Ortonville! ” 

As he repeated the name aloud it seemed to him 
somehow vaguely reminiscent, as if years and years 
ago he might have heard it occasionally in some 
rather intimate connection. He could not for 
the life of him have told where the place was, 
whether East or West. He had no idea in what 
state it might be located, though his impression 
persisted that at some time he had heard the 1 
place mentioned, heard it often, in conversation. 
It seemed to be associated in some dim way with 
his long-distant early boyhood, when both his 
parents were still alive, when their home had been 
a brown-stone house just off the Avenue. The 
longer he pondered the more active seemed the 
little tracers that his brain began sending out to 
scour the shelves of memory. Two or three times 
he thought he remembered, but always it escaped 
him. 

But even more important than this quest, there 
loomed up in his mind another, a still more dif- 


A CALL FROM THE PAST 


13 


ficult one, in which memory seemed powerless to 
aid him. Who was this strange girl whose per¬ 
sonality had so insistently impressed itself upon 
him? How was he to find her again? 

Mentally he began listing all the men of his ac¬ 
quaintance who had been present at the party. 
Surely some one of them must know her, some one 
of them must have brought her. The first thing 
in the morning, he decided, he would begin calling 
them all up and keep at it until he succeeded in 
locating her. Discussing with himself in what 
manner he might best describe her, he found him¬ 
self delighting in the vision that the memory of her 
presented. She had seemed so wholesome, so dif¬ 
ferent from the rest, not exactly pretty, but with 
wonderful, compelling, interesting eyes, and the 
blackest hair he ever had seen. There was some¬ 
thing, too, reminiscently familiar, in her looks, as if 
he might at some time or other have seen a picture 
of her. 

But more puzzling still did he find it to account 
for her perturbation when the telegram was read 
aloud and for her eagerness to learn his intentions. 


14 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


It seemed incredible—yet she must have compre¬ 
hended the significance of that message. Could 
it be possible, he wondered, that it was she who 
had contrived to have it sent? Had she managed 
to get included in his party in order to observe 
what effect it might have on him? Certainly she 
had been anxious to learn what he was going to do. 
She had all but challenged him to go to- 

“Ortonville!” 

In a flash it came back to him. No wonder the 
name had seemed familiar to him. He had heard 
it on many occasions in his childhood. That was 
the town from which his maternal grandmother 
had come. She had been Anne Waddington of 
Ortonville. It had been for her father, his own 
great-grandfather, that he had been named—James 
Waddington Hurd. It was this grandmother’s 
money, he recalled gratefully, that had been the 
basis of the family fortune, the fortune that en¬ 
abled him now to maintain his life of luxurious 
idleness in this comfortable apartment. 

Vivid memories of his grandmother came crowd¬ 
ing back into his brain, although he had been only 




A CALL FROM THE PAST 


i5 

seven or eight when she died. He visualized her 
easily, a commanding figure, erect, white-haired, 
up to her very last days an imperious grande 
dame, demanding and receiving respect from all 
about her. There came to his mind, vaguely at 
first, and then more vividly, recollections of those 
dread occasions when, dressed in his best, he would 
be taken to see her, conducted in state through the 
long drawing room, stiff and ugly with its horsehair 
chairs and sofas, with its rows of forbidding- 
looking portraits, into a smaller room in the rear 
where, sitting in state in a rustling gown of depress¬ 
ing black silk, she would ask him unwelcome ques¬ 
tions about his progress at school. 

On the heels of these memories came others, 
pleasanter memories, of his mother, adoring and 
adored, who had died when he was ten; of his 
father, charming, polished, a man of the world, 
who on his wife’s death had gone abroad to live, 
taking his son with him. There had followed 
school days in Switzerland, in Paris, broken now 
and then by delightful roamings with his father on 
all parts of the Continent, a father who indulged 


16 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


him in everything, who treated him always more 
as a man friend than as a son. Then, while he 
was in Oxford—had come the war. Commissioned 
in the British army, he had had five years of it. 
It was while he was in Mesopotamia that word 
had reached him of his father’s death in New York 
whither, after demobilization, he had returned to 
look after his investments. The death and car¬ 
nage about him when the message came not only 
had dulled his grief, but had minimized his loss. 
By the time the war ended he had become ac¬ 
customed to the idea of being alone in the world. 

Parentless, homeless, “Waddy” Hurd, sum¬ 
moned by the estate lawyers, had returned to his 
native city almost a stranger to find himself at 
least in possession of a comfortable fortune. 
Naturally enough, after his years of army hard¬ 
ship, the city’s lures had quickly led him into its 
gayest circles. From the highway had flocked 
roystering companions to join him in the pleasure 
of spending his money. For two years scenes like 
that of the evening just ended had been his 
nightly habit. And until now he had been content 



A CALL FROM THE PAST 


i7 

to take life as it came, almost convinced that he 
was enjoying it. 

Orton ville! 

Like a call from the past it came to him now, a 
compelling call that a man’s duty to his forebears 
made him obey. As Hurd at last settled himself 
between the sheets his mind was firmly made up. 
He was going to start at once for Ortonville, when¬ 
ever it might be, whatever it might hold in store for 
him. He was glad, too, that he had told the 
stranger girl of his intention. He felt in his heart 
that that was what she had wished him to do, 
even though he could not comprehend her motive. 
But who was she? And how was he to find her 

\ 

again? 


CHAPTER II 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 

4 RISING earlier than he had any day for 
% many weeks, Hurd put into effect his 
^ plan for the first step in his adventure. 
He went downtown to call on his lawyer. 

In spite of the habitual air of self-control in 
which he long had trained himself, Elwood Parsons 
started and turned a sickly gray when his client’s 
name was announced. A visit unannounced, in¬ 
deed without an urgent summons, was an event so 
unusual that the lawyer could construe it as hav¬ 
ing only one meaning—trouble. 

Yet he asked himself, his scheming mind now 
doubly alert, how could Hurd have found out? 
Hurd, so far as his lawyer knew—and he made it 
his business to know practically everything the 
young man did—had been devoting himself strictly 
to a life of riotous pleasures. 

18 




THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


!9 


Only a moment before, Parsons, at peace with the 
world, had been sitting contentedly at his desk lay¬ 
ing plans for the future, reviewing as he did so his 
career from the time he had entered the law office as 
its humblest clerk, until to-day when it was his name 
that led the rest, Parsons, Peck, Blakely & Cohen. 

It had been a long, hard, devious climb. Now, 
in the late fifties, he had reached that position 
where the arduous details fell to the lot of his as¬ 
sociates and clerks. This particular morning the 
subject of his cogitation had been Frieda, his 
motherless daughter. Looking back he counted 
as always his early marriage as the one mistake of 
his career. Attracted by the fresh blonde beauty 
of a Swedish girl, a mechanic’s daughter, he had 
married her when he was in the twenties. Had he 
only waited, he often told himself, he might have 
wedded much more advantageously, married some 
girl whose money would have made his climb to the 
heights of success much less difficult. Fortunately 
—he could not view it otherwise—his wife had died 
years ago, leaving as her only heritage a five-year- 
old golden-haired daughter. Scheming always for 



20 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


the future, Parsons had done his best to obliterate 
all traces of his daughter’s plebeian origin by sur¬ 
rounding her with luxury and providing for her 
the best of training, spending recklessly, extrava¬ 
gantly, always beyond his growing income. Frieda, 
at twenty-two, was a haughty, cultured, somewhat 
spoiled beauty, looking the aristocrat to her slim 
pink finger-tips. 

Frieda, Parsons had decided, was to marry 
Waddy Hurd, then all would be well. Ever a 
skilful strategist, he had not tried to force things 
with either of them. When Hurd had returned 
to America after the war, and was busy with the 
settlement of his father’s estate, Parsons frequently 
had had him to dinner, observing with approval 
that his daughter seemed much attracted to him. 
An invitation each summer to his Adirondack 
camp had further cemented the friendship. That 
Waddy recently had cast his lot among the wild 
Broadway crowd rather than among those of better 
social position had not worried Parsons in the least. 
When reports of the young man’s all-night revels 
reached him he only smiled. 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


21 


“The harder he goes,” he said to himself sagely, 
“ the sooner he will tire of it and be ready to settle 
down . ” The comparison Hurd would make sooner 
or later between the associates of his revels and 
Frieda assuredly would be in Frieda’s favour. 

Frieda! All at once Parsons recalled that she 
had announced her intention the evening before of 
dropping in to go to luncheon with him. How 
fortunate! Glancing at the clock, he saw that she 
was due in a few minutes. If only she would ar¬ 
rive while Hurd was there—whatever he might 
want. 

As the young man entered, Parsons saw at once 
from his face that something was amiss. 

“Well, young man,” he greeted him, assuming a 
manner of friendly joviality, “what brings you 
down here? Is your bank account overdrawn or 
are you being sued for breach of promise?” 

“Nothing like that,” grinned Waddy cheerfully 
enough, although the smile quickly vanished. 
“I’ve just come down here to ask a question or 
two.” 

For a moment the two of them studied each 


22 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


other appraisingly. Parsons, knowing what he 
did, secretly was aghast at the possibilities of the 
situation, hardly daring to wonder what the ques¬ 
tions might be. 

Waddy Hurd, looking at Mr. Parsons, was won¬ 
dering if he dared make a confidant of him. How 
he wished that there was someone to whom he 
could tell everything—about the strange girl at 
his party and the thoughts that she had inspired in 
him, about the telegram and her peculiar interest 
in it. He had found himself that morning wishing 
that his father was alive, or his mother—some one 
of his own kin to whom he could go and lay bare 
his heart. Never before had he realized how alone 
he was. But now, as he studied Mr. Parsons, he 
did not feel encouraged to self-revelation. After 
all, there never had been any real intimacy be¬ 
tween them. 

“I understand, then/’ said Mr. Parsons, “that 
you have come here for some legal advice—our 
opinion, perhaps.” 

“Hardly that.” 

‘‘ What, then? ’’ Mr. Parsons’s manner again in- 



THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


23 


dicated mystification. He was rapidly running 
over in his mind all the affairs connected with the 
Hurd estate. 

“ What I wish to ask is this,” explained Waddy. 
“What do you know about a place called Orton- 
ville? Where is it?” 

Amazedly the lawyer inspected his youthful 
client, wondering what possible occurrence could 
have sponsored the question, yet feeling greatly 
relieved at the course the conversation had taken. 
He could conceive of nothing in Ortonville that 
should cause him alarm. 

“ It is a little village about one hundred miles up¬ 
state. Why?” 

“Have I any kinsfolk living there?” 

Slowly the lawyer shook his head, the idea form¬ 
ing that perhaps someone from Ortonville might 
have written to Hurd, claiming to be a relative and 
asking financial aid. 

“You have no near relatives that I know of. 
Your father was an only son of an only son. Your 
mother had no brothers or sisters and her parents 
died shortly after her marriage.” 


24 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“What about my Grandmother Hurd?” 

“She came, I believe, originally from Orton- 
ville. Of course she has been dead for many years, 
but when she was alive I personally handled her 
affairs. I used frequently to see her, and in all of 
our association I do not recall that she ever spoke 
of any kinsfolk in Ortonville except her father. 
Your great-grandfather, James Waddington, had 
an estate there. I do not know whether you are 
familiar with your family’s history or not.” 

“I know nothing whatever about it,” said Hurd 
almost apologetically. “You see, I have been 
away from this country so much and Dad never 
talked about it. I know nothing about it at 
all.” 

Mr. Parsons nodded understandingly. He now 
had entirely recovered his assurance. 

“Naturally you have had little opportunity. 
Well, your great-grandfather, James Waddington, 
coming to this country from England when he 
was quite a young man, set himself up in the city 
here as a silversmith and jeweller. In twenty years 
he managed to accumulate a large fortune, and, be- 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


25 

coming naturalized as a citizen, for a time was quite 
prominent in municipal affairs and in the city’s 
social life. He seems, however, to have brought 
with him the true Briton’s desire for becoming the 
owner of a landed estate. When he was in the 
forties he retired from business and purchased five 
hundred acres in or near the village of Ortonville. 
He built a mansion and thereafter made his home 
there, rarely coming to the city. 

“As a matter of fact”—Mr. Parsons pressed a 
button summoning one of his clerks, and pausing, 
directed him to fetch a certain steel box—“you 
are still the owner of the mansion in which your 
great-grandfather lived.” 

He paused again for a moment to run through 
the file of papers that the steel box contained. 

“Yes, here it is.” He spread out on his desk 
for Hurd’s inspection some of the papers he had 
removed. “Here are copies of the deeds for the 
property, or at least a remainder of it, some eighty 
acres on which the old mansion stands. When 
your grandmother died seventeen years ago she 
bequeathed all her property, real and personal, to 



26 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


your father. He in turn, on his death more re¬ 
cently, bequeathed everything to you.” 

“ You have never by any chance been in Orton- 
ville, have you? You don’t know what the old 
place is like?” 

“I was there only once, years ago. From these 
papers it appears, in your grandmother’s time, 
some local man was appointed as her agent there 
and we never had occasion to disturb this arrange¬ 
ment. We are represented there by this same 
agent, a man named Jessup.” 

“Henry T. Jessup?” exclaimed Hurd, excitedly. 

Mr. Parsons glanced at him surprisedly, mean¬ 
while referring to the papers to make sure of the 
name. 

“ Yes, that is the man—Henry T. Jessup.” He 
had mentally decided now that the occasion for 
Hurd’s inquiry must have been a letter from this 
man Jessup. While he could not conceive what 
purpose Jessup could have in writing, the decision 

i 

was forming that he must arrange at once to have 
him replaced. It was unthinkable that an old 
busybody of an agent should be permitted to com- 



THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


27 

municate direct with Hurd instead of through the 
office of his attorneys. There was no telling where 
it would lead. Meanwhile, he continued his in¬ 
spection of the papers. 

“It appears, Mr. Hurd, from these records, that 
the house has been unoccupied for many years ex¬ 
cept by caretakers. In these envelopes you will 
find receipts for sums paid as yearly wage as care¬ 
takers to ‘Mr. and Mrs. H. Cupps, caretakers,’ and 
in the last five years, to Mrs. H. Cupps alone, her 
husband apparently having died. Here, also, are 
records of the transfer of deeds, tax receipts, and 
all other expenditures for the property, forwarded 
to us by Mr. Jessup.” 

“What sort of an old bird is this Jessup?” 

“I do not recollect that he ever has been in 
this office. All our business with him has been by 
correspondence.” 

“Do you know,” asked Hurd, explosively, “if 
he has a daughter?” 

A knowing look crept into Mr. Parsons’s face, 
He thought he understood now. Naturally, if 
Henry T. Jessup had a daughter she would be more 


28 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


or less informed about James Waddington Hurd 
and his fortune. The minx must have found some 
excuse for writing to Hurd and his interest had 
been stirred. 

“It is quite within the range of possibility that 
Mr. Jessup has a daughter,” said Mr. Parsons, 
“but I regret to say that I know nothing of his 
domestic relations. Has his daughter written 
you?” 

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” said Hurd, quickly. 
“I don’t even know that he has a daughter. I 
know nothing about him whatever.” 

“I’m afraid,” said the lawyer, “I have told 
you all I can about Ortonville. It really is very 
little.” 

“ It’s a lot,” said Waddy, enthusiastically. “You 
have enlightened me on a most important subject. 
Here was I considering myself as a homeless wan¬ 
derer on the face of the earth, without kith or kin. 
You have provided me with a home, a home I never 
suspected that I had—an ancestral home, if you 
want to look at it that way.” 

“Such appears to be the case.” 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


29 

“ And what’s more,” Waddy announced, blithely, 
“Em going up there right away and look it over. 
It has been years and years since I have had any¬ 
thing like a home. If you’ll just let me have those 
papers to establish my identity, and my claim to 
the place, I’ll run along. What’s a home for if 
one doesn’t live in it?” 

“I fear you may find this mansion of yours in 
sad disrepair. A place left to caretakers for so 
many years as this has been will hardly be habit¬ 
able.” 

“I’ll take a chance on it.” 

“In any event,” suggested Parsons as he handed 
over a selection of the documents, “I would advise 
you to motor up. If you are disappointed when 
you arrive, you can easily get away. I doubt if 
there is good train service. It is an out-of-the- 
way place.” 

“That’s a good idea. I’ll do that very thing. 
Motoring will be much pleasanter. But don’t 
worry about my not being able to rough it. I had 
lots of it in the Peninsula.” 

About to make his farewell and rush away, he 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


30 

paused politely as Parsons inspected a card a page 
had handed to him. 

“It’s Frieda, she’s here,” said the lawyer, as he 
directed that she be admitted at once. 

He watched eagerly as the young people a mo¬ 
ment later exchanged greetings, trying to read in 
their faces the secret of their hearts. Waddy as¬ 
suredly seemed glad to see Frieda and his daugh¬ 
ter’s face lighted up with a flush of pleasure. 

“Why, Waddy Hurd!” she exclaimed, extending 
her hand. “ I haven’t laid eyes on you for an age. 
Why haven’t you been to see me?” 

“You’re too popular. It’s awfully hard to find 
you at home,” lied the young man politely. 

“Now I’ve got you, I’m not going to let you es¬ 
cape. As a penalty for neglecting me you shall 
stay and lunch with Dad and me at the Bankers’ 
Club.” 

“Sorry,” said Waddy, firmly, “I’d like to, but 
I can’t. Something awfully important has hap¬ 
pened and I must attend to it right away.” 

At his abrupt departure both father and daugh¬ 
ter looked dismayed. Parsons, his first fears al- 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


3 i 

layed, had been regarding Waddy’s interest in 
Ortonville as a mere passing fancy, but now he did 
not know what to think. There was some mys¬ 
terious motive that he found himself unable to 
fathom. As Waddy left the room both father 
and daughter were looking after him puzzledly, 
neither of them knowing quite what to make 
of it. 

When Frieda turned toward her father, there 
was anger, disappointment, mortification in her 
face, and something more, something that told her 
father that she was in love with Waddy Hurd. 
Yet the knowledge, although it was what he had 
hoped for, did not satisfy him now. 

“Come, let’s go to luncheon,” he said, casually. 
“Damn the young whelp,” was what he was 
saying to himself. “I don’t care what’s up. 
I’ll make him marry Frieda yet. He must marry 
her.” 

Although there was fear in his heart, although he 
knew that if his plans miscarried it meant ruin for 
him, his long years of duplicity had taught him to 
mask his feelings. Little did his daughter, troubled 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


3 2 

as she was with her own affairs, suspect the exist¬ 
ence of the fires of rage and fear that were con¬ 
suming her outwardly calm parent. 

Meanwhile Waddy, all unconscious of the per¬ 
turbation he had aroused, was heading uptown as 
fast as possible. He was eager to be off for Orton- 
ville at once. He had risen that morning in a 
mood entirely foreign to his habit, with two fixed 
purposes in mind. Hitherto he had gotten up to 
drift aimlessly along with whatever currents of 
amusement or revelry happened to exercise their 
influence. But to-day was vastly different. 

Two problems confronted him: 

Who was the girl? 

What had that peculiar message meant? 

Before going to Mr. Parsons’s office he had spent 
a long time at the telephone. Not one of the men 
he had called seemed to have had any recollection 
of the girl or had been able to give him any clue to 
her identity. Two or three of his guests, awakened 
by his telephoning, vaguely remembered that in 
the groups in which they had come were some girls 
whose names they did not know. When they 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


33 

asked him to describe the girl about whom he was 
inquiring, all that he seemed to remember about 
her was that she was little and dark, and differ¬ 
ently dressed, and had wonderful eyes. 

As he was packing for his journey, and still 
thinking about the girl, Waddy was interrupted by 
a caller, Conway Mason, one of his guests of the 
evening before. Mason looked at the shirts laid 
out and the waiting bag. 

“For heaven’s sake, Waddy, what has hap¬ 
pened? You get me out of bed this morning to 
ask me a lot of fool questions about some girl, and 
now it looks as if you were planning a hasty flight 
—or is it an elopement?” 

Hurd turned a laughing face to him. He real¬ 
ized how absurd his questions must have sounded, 
but there was no use in his explaining it all to 
Mason. At any rate, he was too full of the idea of 
his voyage of discovery to his newly found home. 

“You remember, Mason, that queer telegram I 
got last night?” 

“Rather. Some sort of a joke, wasn’t it?” 

“I don’t think so. I remembered having heard 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


34 

that name Ortonville when I was a kid, so I went 
down to see my lawyer this morning, to see what 
he knew about the place. My people, it seems, 
came from there. My great-grandfather, the man 
for whom I am named, had a big estate there once, 
and my lawyer tells me I still own the old house. 
Think of it, I’ve got a home of my own that I had 
no notion existed! I’m going up there this after¬ 
noon and I’ll probably stay a few days. Better 
come along.” 

“ Let’s see that telegram you received,” said 
Mason. 

Thoughtfully he read the paper that his host ex¬ 
tended, finding it just as puzzling as it had sounded 
the night before. 

“What did your lawyer say about it—this mur¬ 
der business?” 

“I didn’t tell him anything about that. If 
there’s any sort of mystery about the place I want 
to dope it out for myself.” 

“If there’s a mystery to be solved,” said Mason, 
“that’s where I shine. All the time you were dig¬ 
ging ditches for his Majesty of England, I was one 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


35 

of Uncle Sam’s intelligence officers. I’ve had a 
lot of experience running down things.” 

“Behold the boy sleuth! Just the man I want. 
Well, then, let’s go,” cried Waddy. “There are a 
lot of things to be found out: why Jessup sent me 
that telegram instead of sending it to my lawyers, 
and who is going to murder whom, and what he 
expects me to do to prevent it.” 

“How long do you expect to stay?” 

“I’ve no idea. I’ve never tried to prevent a 
murder before. I don’t know how long it usually 
takes.” 

“Ha, ha,” echoed Mason in hollow imitation of 
mirth. “You ought to write for the funny papers. 
But I’ll accept your invitation. Fed up on these 
parties.” 

“All right, go pack a bag. We are going to 
motor. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.” 

Hurd, left once more to himself, quickly finished 
his packing. As he looked into a drawer to see if 
he had forgotten anything, he saw something lying 
there and for a moment or two regarded it thought¬ 
fully. At last, nodding his head slowly as if as- 


36 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

suring himself that he was doing the right thing, 
he picked up the object at which he had been gaz¬ 
ing, inspected it carefully, and then threw it into 
the bag. 

“Who knows/’ he said to himself, “it might 
come in exceedingly useful.” 

“It” was the automatic that he had carried all 
through his military service, a weapon in the use 
of which he had become most proficient. 

His bag stowed in his car, he was about to 
climb in himself, when a new notion struck him. 

Suppose the stranger girl should try to com¬ 
municate with him again? She would not know 
how to reach him through his lawyers. No one 
but Mr. Parsons and Conway Mason knew where 
he was going. He turned back into the lobby of 
the apartment building. 

“If a lady calls me on the telephone or comes 
here to see me,” he said to the operator, “please 
tell her that I have gone there.” 

“Gone where?” asked the puzzled operator. 

“She will understand the message. Just say, 
‘Mr. Hurd left word to tell you that he had gone 


THE BEST-LAID PLANS 


37 

there/ Please see that the night operator gets 
the word, too.” 

“ I’m to tell any lady who calls up that you have 
gone there. If there’s more than one lady, am I 
to tell them all the same thing? Is it any partic¬ 
ular lady? Hadn’t you better give me her name, 
so that I’ll be sure the right party gets your mes¬ 
sage?” 

Any particular lady! 

How was he to identify her for the telephone 
operator when he did not even know her name? 
He might say that she had the most wonderful 
eyes in the world, but that would hardly do. 

“No,” he said, “that’s all. If any lady calls 
up, give her that message.” 

And as he climbed again into his car and threw 
in the clutch he comforted himself with the thought 
that if any other girl got the message it would be 
meaningless to her. 

If the right girl got it, she’d understand. 


CHAPTER III 


STRANGERS IN THE DARK 

I T WAS nearing ten o’clock. Puzzled as to 
their whereabouts on the unfamiliar road, 
Hurd had stopped his car while he climbed 
out to inspect a wayside sign by the aid of an elec¬ 
tric torch from his motor kit. 

“It’s the place we’re looking for, all right,” he 
called out. “‘Village of Ortonville, Speed Limit 

15 miles. By order-’ ” 

“Yes, I know,” sighed Mason. “I’d even be 
glad to see the selectmen.” From his place in the 
car he peered ahead, vainly trying to discover what 
lay ahead of them. Accustomed as they were to 
the glare of the city streets, habituated to well- 
lighted boulevards leading to shore resorts and 
country clubs, the monotonous blackness of the 
unlighted country roads that they had been trav¬ 
ersing for the last two hours had had a depressing 
effect on both of them. 


38 




STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


39 

“Some burg/’ Mason declared, scornfully. 
“They don’t even seem to have street lights.” 

“Quit your sniffing at my home town,” retorted 
Waddy, as he climbed back into the motor, a feel¬ 
ing of elation that his quest was nearing its end 
quickening his spirits. “We’ll drive on a bit 
and probably we’ll come to Main Street. Then 
we can ask our way.” 

“I don’t suppose there’s such a thing in the 
place as a decent hotel,” grumbled Mason, dole¬ 
fully. 

“Hotel, my eye,” scoffed Waddy. “Even if 
there was, we wouldn’t stop there. Do you think 
I have come this far in search of a home of my own 
to pass it up at the last minute because it happens 
to be dark? Know all men by these presents that 
it is the firm intention of James Waddington Hurd 
to sleep this very night under his own roof-tree, 
where he expects you to be his guest within the 
ancestral walls.” 

“Provided he is able in this pesky darkness to 
find the aforesaid walls,” growled Mason, although 
he made no further protest. 


4 ° 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


Presently, as they drove cautiously along the 
road, the lights of the car marking a pathway 
ahead, ghostly shapes of dwellings, for the most 
part set well back from the road, became more 
frequent, but in none of them was any light 
visible. They came to a tiny frame church, rec¬ 
ognizable by the spire silhouetted against the sky 
above the tree-tops and by a row of hitching posts 
along the roadside. A little distance beyond the 
church a descending turn in the road brought them 
into what even in the absence of lights they rec¬ 
ognized as a sort of public square. Although it ap¬ 
peared to be almost surrounded by buildings only 
one light was visible. This came faintly from a 
building that had the unmistakable appearance of 
a country “general store.” 

“Pll say there’s not much night-life here,” said 
Mason, as Hurd steered the car in the direction of 
the lighted windows. Just as they reached the 
place the windows went dark, and a bearded man, 
emerging with a lantern in his hand, closed the 
door after him and locked it with a great key. 

“Hey, there,” Waddy called out. 



STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


41 


“I ain’t got no gasoline, if that’s what you’re 
after,” the man answered surlily, deliberately 
turning to stare at them, after he had made sure 
the door was safely locked. 

“ We’ve plenty of gas, thank you,” said Waddy, 
politely. “ I just wanted to ask the way.” 

“ Goshen’s straight ahead, about twenty-eight 
miles. Just foiler the road.” 

“But we’re not going to Goshen.” 

“Land’s sakes,” said the storekeeper, for the 
first time manifesting any interest or curiosity. 
He raised his lantern to the level of their faces and, 
holding it at arm’s length, peered curiously at 
them. “Where do you think you’re going, then?” 

“This is Ortonville, isn’t it?” 

“It’s Ortonville, all right, but nobody ever stops 
here. There’s nothing here for them to stop for.” 

“We’re trying to find the Waddington place.” 
Waddy’s simple announcement seemed to have a 
strange effect on the villager. So sudden was the 
start he gave that he all but dropped the lantern. 

“The Waddington place?” he echoed, disbelief 
manifest in his tone. 


42 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“ Yes,” said Hurd, almost sharply. “ Isn’t there 
anybody of that name around here?” 

“It would be better for everybody if there 
wasn’t,” the man said, not with bitterness, but 
rather with the intensity of firm conviction, 
mingled perhaps with a trace of fear. Both Mason 
and Hurd, puzzled by his obvious perturbation 
when the name first had been mentioned, were 
now even more perplexed by his words and manner. 
His whole attitude seemed to express aversion, 
distrust, and mingled with it something of terror. 
Waddy, recalling the strange telegram he had re¬ 
ceived, the message that told of an impending 
murder, began to wonder if he had arrived too 
late. As he sat trying to frame a question that 
might lead to further information, the storekeeper 
came at him with a question that was a total 
surprise to him. 

“ Which of the Waddingtons was it you were 
looking for?” 

“Is there more than one Waddington place?” 
asked Hurd, eagerly. 

“There’s two,” the storekeeper answered, curtly, 


STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


43 

“and that’s two too many. But what are you 
going there for if you don’t know the Wad- 
dingtons, if you don’t even know there’s two of 
them?” 

“It’s just a matter of business—private busi¬ 
ness,” said Waddy, regretting now that his in¬ 
cautious question had betrayed his ignorance in 
regard to the Waddington family. 

“Well, take it from me, young man, whatever 
your business might be, I’d go mighty slow about 
getting mixed up with either of them.” 

“Ask him if there’s a hotel here,” said Mason 
in an undertone. “Maybe we had better wait 
until morning.” 

“Nothing doing,” Waddy whispered back in 
reply. 

“In fact, I’m warning you,” the villager con¬ 
tinued, “that you ain’t safe trying to go on up 
there to-night. It ain’t safe for any one to be 
messing around in the dark with them crazy old 
varmints.” 

“Look here, Mr.-” said Waddy, hesitating 

at the name. 



44 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“Mr. Cupps,” the storekeeper obligingly volun¬ 
teered. 

Memory came quickly to Waddy’s aid. He re¬ 
called the names he had read in those musty old 
accounts in the lawyer’s office earlier in the day. 

“ You’re not by any chance related to Mrs. 
Cupps, Mrs. H. Cupps, are you?” 

“ Yes and no. I’m related in a sort of a way, if 
you might call it that. Hosy Cupps was my 
grand-uncle and the widow was his wife. I reckon 
she’s my grand-aunt by marriage, though I never 
have thought about her as bein’ kinsfolk.” 

“Well,” explained Waddy. “It wasn’t either 
of the Waddingtons I was trying to locate, but Mrs. 
Cupps, Mrs. H. Cupps, that I wish to see.” 

“Oh, that’s different,” the storekeeper replied 
in what seemed to be greatly relieved tones. “ It’s 
the old Waddington place you want.” 

“I suppose so, if that’s where Mrs. Cupps lives.” 

“She sure does. She’s lived there for so long, 
with none of the Waddingtons or their heirs ever 
coming back to the place, that for years everyone 
hereabouts has been calling it the Cupps’ place, 


STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


45 

and at first I forgot about its rightly being a Wad- 
dington place. What was it you was wanting to 
see Mrs. Cupps about? ” 

“Sorry,” said Waddy, “but my business with 
her is private.” 

“Well, don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” 
Cupps retorted, testily, “though being a sort of 
relative of hers I reckon I might have a right to 
know. I’ll warn you, though, it won’t do you a 
mite of good to go up there to-night to see her.” 

“Why not?” 

“There ain’t no why about it, I’m just warning 
you.” 

“Tell us where the old Waddington place is,” 
said Mason, impatiently. “That’s all we want to 
know from you.” 

“All right,” said Cupps, unruffled, “but, re¬ 
member, I warned you. If you get into trouble 
it’s on your own heads. Keep right on up this 
way”—he indicated a road to the left with a sweep 
of his arm—“for about half a mile, maybe it’s 
nearer three quarters. Right on the brow of the 
first big hill you come to there’s a big house. 




46 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

You can’t miss it even in the dark. There’s a 
high iron fence all about it. That’s the old Wad- 
dington place. But,” he called out after them as 
they started off, ‘Took out for yourselves.” 

Conway Mason, twisting around in his seat, sat 
for a moment with his eye on the villager who still 
stood with lantern held aloft, watching their de¬ 
parture. 

“I’ll say, Waddy,” he observed as he settled 
back in the seat, “the neighbours around here 
don’t seem to think much of the Waddington 
family.” 

“Their opinion is nothing to what the Wadding¬ 
ton family, or at least this member of it, thinks 
about them, if that ruffian is a sample,” retorted 
Waddy, crossly. 

James Waddington Hurd was tired out. His 
long-continued nights of dissipation had sapped the 
stamina that had carried him to honours in ath¬ 
letics and in the army, far more than he had real¬ 
ized. The long drive alone had tested his strength, 
and now culminating as it had in this darkened 
village, with the storekeeper’s outspoken hints of 


STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


47 

family skeletons, his frazzled nerves were being 
tried to the utmost. What was it, he was wonder¬ 
ing, that the village folk held against his people? 
Who were these two Waddingtons—“ crazy old 
varmints,” Cupps had called them—who had 
places somewhere in the vicinity? They must 
be kinsfolk of his and yet his lawyer had seemed to 
think that he had no living relatives. 

Perhaps it had been foolish of him to set out so 
impetuously on this quest. When he received 
that telegram, what he should have done was to 
turn it over to his lawyers, as he did with every¬ 
thing else, and let them find out what it was all 
about. That was what Parsons was paid for. It 
is what he should have done—would have done— 
if- 

Yes, he admitted it to himself. It was that 
girl who had inspired his rash journey. It was her 
challenge, “If I were a man,” that had called 
him back to courage and action, in what on the 
spur of the moment he had conceived to be his 
duty to his family name. 

“I say,” Mason’s voice broke in unpleasantly 




48 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

on his train of thought, “ suppose this old care¬ 
taker, Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is, doesn’t recog¬ 
nize you or admit your identity and refuses to let 
us into the house, what are we going to do? I’m 
dog-tired. I wish we’d asked the old chap back 
there about a hotel.” 

“We’ll get in all right,” said Waddy, deter¬ 
minedly. “It is my home. I own the house, and 
I have the credentials to prove it. I’m going to 
sleep there to-night if we have to break in.” 

They had reached the hill their guide had men¬ 
tioned and Waddy, slowing down, took it on 
second speed in order to make a better survey of 
their surroundings. Presently the light from the 
car’s lamps revealed a fence of tall iron pickets, 
paintless, rusted, weather-beaten, the typical en¬ 
closure by which the millionaires of the ’seventies 
served notice on their neighbours of their desire 
for exclusiveness. Veering the car this way and 
that, in order that the glare of the headlights 
might light up the fence, they discovered two 
great iron gates that seemed to mark the terminals 
of a circular driveway. 


STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


49 


_ In the ghostly darkness they could make out 
what appeared to be tall rows of ancient trees 
lining the driveway, but from their mysterious 
black depths no light came, no sound, nothing to 
indicate that in their shadows a house might be 
hidden. 

“Gosh,” cried Mason, “this place gives me the 
shivers.” 

“Here,” said Waddy, extending a flashlight, 
“take this and see if you can get one of the gates 
open, so we can drive in.” 

Mason dropped out of the car, and with his way 
lighted by the tiny beam approached the south 
gate. Waddy, peering after him, heard the clank¬ 
ing of a chain. 

“Nothing doing,” Mason called out. “The 
gate is fastened with a regular log chain and 
padlocked on the inside. Welcome home, old 
dear.” 

Waddy’s retort was a vicious, prolonged honk 
of the motor horn, the notes of which, reverberat¬ 
ing through the stillness of the night, produced a 
most startling effect. Waiting for a moment, and 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


5 ° 

hearing no response of any sort, he renewed the 
honking, continuing it at intervals. 

“Careful,” mocked Mason, “or you may wake 
up your dear dead ancestors.” 

“I’m going to wake somebody up. That old 
Mrs. Cupps, the caretaker, must be in the house 
somewhere.” 

“Maybe she is so old that she can’t hear any¬ 
thing,” suggested Mason, facetiously. “It is a 
long time since any of the Waddingtons have been 
home, you know.” 

Waddy’s only answer was to repeat the honking, 
and this time it apparently was to some effect. 
Back through the trees, perhaps three hundred 
feet away, a light appeared showing dimly at an 
elevation as if it might come from a lamp or lantern 
held at an upper window. 

“Hello, the house,” Waddy shouted loudly, 
springing from the car. 

In the darkness both of them stood listening, 
their eyes glued on the light, waiting some re¬ 
sponse. Presently Waddy shouted again. 

There came the sound of a window being cau- 


STRANGERS IN THE DARK 


5i 

tiously raised. As they listened, awaiting an an¬ 
swering hail, Waddy’s lips were forming to shout 
again, when through the stillness, a woman’s 
voice, strident and shrill, raucous with age and 
wrath, called out: 

“ Get out. I don’t know which one of you it is, 
nor what tricks you’re up to this time, but 
I am ready for you. I warn you.” 

“Mrs. Cupps,” Waddy called out. “Oh, Mrs. 
Cupps, this is-” 

Before he could finish his sentence there came 
from behind the trees a burst of flame, followed 
by the roar of a shotgun. Off to the left they 
could hear the patter of shot. They heard the 
window shut with a slam although the glimmer of 
light still remained. 

“Damn it, Waddy,” Mason cried, amazedly, 
“the old girl is shooting at us. Come on, let’s 
get out of here.” 

“Nothing doing,” said Waddy, stubbornly. 
“It’s my home. It is going to take more than an 
old woman with a blunderbuss to keep me out of 



52 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


But though he spoke bravely, in his heart he 
was sick with anxiety. Not that he was afraid of 
old Mrs. Cupps’ erratic shotgun. What gave 
him pause was the evidence of some dread secret 
about the Waddington family that made the 
people in the vicinity speak of them with such 
loathing. What hidden peril was it that would 
drive a helpless old woman to use firearms? More 
than ever he realized that the telegram had been 
sent to him in good faith, that there was murder 
in the air. 

But as he pondered his fears vanished and his 
heart thrilled, for the thought came back to him 
now again more strongly than ever. In some way 
the stranger girl was linked with this place of 
mystery. He was glad, whatever might happen, 
that he had come. 


CHAPTER IV 


INSIDE THE FENCE 

W HAT next?” asked Mason, quizzically, 
his fear vanishing and his spirits rising 
with the prospect of some action against 
a tangible foe. 

“I’m going over that fence,” replied Waddy, 
who had been standing stock still beside the car, 
peering into the depths of darkness about the old 
mansion. 

“And get shot at again?” 

“That’s the best thing I do. They pinned a 
medal on me for it,” he answered, laughingly. 

“All right,” said Mason, “go ahead if you want 
to. It’s none of my business. It isn’t my an¬ 
cestral home. I’m going to wait right here in the 
car ready to carry off your mangled remains.” 

“Bah!” snorted Waddy, “afraid of a frightened 
old woman?” 

S3 


54 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“You said it. Scared women are the worst 
kind.” 

While they talked the light at the upper window 
had continued to glow dimly, but evidently the occu¬ 
pant or occupants of the house had descended to the 
lower floor, for now there appeared through the trees 
several other spots of light nearer the ground as if 
some or all of the first-floor rooms had been lighted. 

“Looks as if the old dame might be lighting up 
to repel an attack,” suggested Mason. 

“Ell soon find out what’s going on,” said Waddy 
making a running leap for one of the gates. He 
succeeded in gripping the top bar and by the ex¬ 
ercise of his full strength managed to draw himself 
up and over, although he had to use the utmost 
caution to avoid being impaled on the sharp pick¬ 
ets. Balancing for a breathing spell on his peril¬ 
ous perch he let himself down on the inner side 
and dropped safely into the driveway. 

Cautiously he began to work his way toward 
the house, slipping with hardly a sound from tree 
to tree, waiting for a moment behind each to make 
certain that his presence there had not been dis- 


INSIDE THE FENCE 


55 

covered. As he crept on through the darkness all 
sorts of strange thoughts crept into his brain. 
He could hardly believe that it had been only 
yesterday that he had been one of a merry party 
enjoying all the luxuries that wealth and residence 
in a large city can bring. Here, everything was 
different. Time might have stopped fifty years 
before. There were no clanging street-cars, no 
electric lights, no taxi-cabs. He wondered if there 
were even telephones. The unfriendliness of the 
village storekeeper, the rusted iron fence over 
which he had just come, even the tall trees behind 
which he was skulking, all seemed to belong to an¬ 
other and a forgotten generation. 

And over it all hung a baffling air of mystery. 
First there was the strange message that had come 
to him with its hint of impending murder. There 
were the outspoken hints that Cupps had given 
of the unpopularity of the Waddingtons, and now 
here at the home that was rightfully his, where he 
might reasonably have expected a welcome, his 
greeting had been a charge of birdshot. It seemed 
to him that all at once he had been set down in a 


56 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

dark forest where something hidden lurked and 
menaced him from all sides. 

Yet, chuckling to himself at the very absurdity 
of his own thoughts, he recalled that it was the 
year 1922, that he was hardly six hours by motor 
away from New York. Strange, dark deeds no 
longer had a place in civilized communities. It 
was ridiculous even to think of hidden mysteries 
in such enlightened times so near a large city. 

Boldly he stepped out from among the trees and 
with firm step strode across the porch of the 
lighted house. As he reached the door and began 
feeling around for a bell of some sort, he listened 
but could hear no sound from within. His search¬ 
ing fingers at last encountered an old-fashioned 
knocker and, raising it quickly, he sounded it 
loudly several times. Twice more he sounded it 
before there came a response. 

“ Who’s there?” a woman’s quavering voice 
called out. It might have been the same voice 
that a few minutes before had shouted an angry 
warning, but now it sounded weak, old, tired, 
frightened, vastly different. 


INSIDE THE FENCE 


57 

“It is James Waddington Hurd/’ he answered, 
speaking slowly and distinctly. “I have come 
home, come to take possession of my house.” 

Listening with his ear pressed almost against the 
door, he thought that a stifled scream came from 
within. Impatiently he waited as he heard the 
scuffling of feet, and then the rattle of a bunch of 
keys. Slowly the door opened, and from behind 
it there peered out at him a quaint figure, a slender 
wisp of a woman bowed with great age. She was 
dressed in the simplest of black, a kerchief about 
her neck fastened with a great cameo at the 
lower end of the “V” it made. On her whitened 
hair was a lace cap from which two broad black 
ribbons fluttered. The wrinkled hands that were 
holding up a lamp were trembling violently and the 
ancient face turned inquiringly on him was the 
texture of old parchment, but the eyes that met 
his were keen and bright. 

“Who did you say it was?” the old woman 
quavered. There was doubt, incredulity in her 
tone, rather than fear. 

“I’m James Waddington Hurd,” he answered, 


58 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

removing his cap. “I have come home. Here 
are papers to establish my identity.” 

She stood for a moment inspecting him, ab¬ 
sently taking the packet of legal papers Hurd 
pushed through the door into her hand. She 
gave these a baffled glance and then returned to 
her study of the young man before her. 

“Yes, yes,” she muttered, “it is Mr. Hurd. 
He’s every inch a Waddington. But it’s all so 
strange. Come in and welcome, Mr. Hurd,” she 
finally said, opening wide the door and dropping 
him a curtsey that might have done credit to 
Queen Victoria’s court. “Ah, it’s high time you 
came back to look after your own, with all the 
strange goings on here. High time.” 

She paused to fling back a furtive glance over 
her shoulder and then, as if remembering her man¬ 
ners, curtsied low again, exclaiming: 

“Come in, Mr. Hurd. You’ll find everything 
just as it was left forty years ago, everything wait¬ 
ing for you.” 

Home! With a strange choking in his throat, 
with an unwonted sense of loneliness all at once 


INSIDE THE FENCE 


59 

possessing him, Waddy stood in the doorway, his 
eyes curiously roving the great hall that lay re¬ 
vealed within. In the rear a wide staircase de¬ 
scended and at one side was a great stone fireplace 
topped by a lofty panelled mantelpiece. It was all 
his—his home, the home where his people had 
dwelt. Thrusting back his shoulders as if he 
would shake off the memories of his years of home¬ 
less roaming, he was about to step across the 
threshold to claim possession when from the dark¬ 
ness without there came a cry. 

“I say, Waddy, what’s happened?” 

“Oh, Mrs. Cupps,” cried Waddy. “I almost 
forgot. I left a friend in the car outside. Could 
you let me have the key to unlock the gates? I 
had to climb over the fence.” 

“Wait,” she said, “I’ll get it.” 

She was gone hardly a second and when she re¬ 
appeared with the key she was carrying a lighted 
lantern. 

“I’m afeerd there’s no place for the car,” she 
apologized. “The barn floor ain’t as strong as 
it might be and it’s all cluttered up.” 


6o 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“ That’s all right,” Waddy called back as he 
hastened off to admit Mason. “It won’t hurt it 
to stand in the driveway.” 

“Be sure you lock the gate again,” she called 
after him. 

When a few minutes later Mason and Waddy 
recrossed the porch with their kit-bags they were 
surprised to find that in their brief absence the door 
had been locked behind them, but Mrs. Cupps evi¬ 
dently had been standing behind it awaiting their 
return, for before they could knock it was flung 
open to them. As they entered they found the 
whole lower floor ablaze with light, the caretaker 
having apparently been occupied all the time they 
were gone in setting out candles and lamps. 

“Mrs. Cupps,” said Waddy, “this is my friend 
Conway Mason.” 

“Good thing there’s two of ye,” she said, 
curtseying again. “There’s two of them to con¬ 
tend with, drat them.” 

“Two what?” asked Waddy, perplexed. 

“You’ll find out soon enough, never fear,” she 
answered, shaking her head dolefully. “It ain’t 


INSIDE THE FENCE 


61 

i 

for me to be talking about what ain’t my business, 
though many’s the time I’ve been hard put to it, 
keeping them off till you came home.” 

“But I don’t understand,” cried Waddy, 
“what’s it all about?” 

“Oh, shucks, Waddy,” said Mason, crossly, 
“let’s let explanations wait till morning. I’m all 
in for lack of sleep, and I could do with a bite to 
eat.” 

“Begging your pardon, sirs,” the old woman 
said. “I’m forgetful. Young gentlemen always 
are hungry. Just wait you here a minute.” 

Tired out from their trip they flung themselves, 
as she vanished in the direction of the pantry, 
into two great armchairs placed before the fire¬ 
place, looking curiously about them at the great 
engravings framed on the wall, at the old muskets 
that hung here and there between mounted tro¬ 
phies of the hunt. 

“Great old place, Waddy, I’ll say,” said Mason, 
yawning, “even if we did have a time getting in.” 

But Waddy did not answer him. He was star¬ 
ing curiously, reminiscently, at a strange design he 


62 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


had discovered in the tall mantelpiece. In a rough 
plastered place between two carved wooden panels 
three great links were firmly imbedded. The 
fragment of chain seemed to be of metal of some 
sort and bore the appearance of having at some 
time or other been gilded or bronzed, although now 
it was badly tarnished. Overcome with curiosity 
about it, Hurd had risen to inspect it more closely 
as the old housekeeper returned with a heaping 
plate of ginger cookies and a huge pitcher of cider. 

“What is this; these links here?” Waddy asked 
as Mrs. Cupps set her supplies on a table beside 
Mason, where he fell to without ceremony. 

“That,” said Mrs. Cupps, her face lighting up 
with pride, “that is the very identical sign that 
hung for so many years in front of the Waddington 
shop. When your grandfather—no, bless me, I’m 
forgetting, it was your great-grandfather—James 
Waddington closed up the silversmith shop where 
he had made his fortune, he took down the sign 
and brought it up here, and set it there with his 
own hands, that proud of it he was, and good 
reason he had to be. The Waddington silver- 


INSIDE THE FENCE 63 

smith shop in its day, I’ve heard my own father 
say, was the grandest place of its sort in the whole 
United States, right on Broadway it was, below 
Fulton Street, although I can’t say just where for 
I never saw it with my own eyes.” 

“ Some cider, Waddy, better get aboard,” called 
Mason, and Waddy, his eyes still lingering on 
the sign, joined him in the ginger cookies. 

“If you’ll excuse me now, young gentlemen,” 
said the old woman, beaming at Conway’s praise 
of the refreshments she had set out, “I’ll be seeing 
to your beds. I’m afraid—” she paused apolo¬ 
getically—“both of you will have to sleep in one 
room to-night. There are two beds there. It’s 
the only room in the house where the beds are 
made up. For forty years, Mr. Hurd, my husband 
and me have kept that room waiting for the owner 
to come and occupy it, waiting first for your 
father, and then for you, waiting, waiting, waiting, 
till it seemed you’d never come. And after 
Cupps died, I kept right on, leaving everything 
just as it was, and always the master’s room 
ready.” 



64 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Pm sorry,” said Waddy, touched by such old- 
world faithfulness. “I’d have been here long ago 
only I never heard until to-day that this house was 
mine.” 

“ Yours it is, sir, and every stick and stone in 
it, but you understand, I wasn’t expecting that 
you might bring a guest with you.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Mason mumbled, 
cheerfully, his mouth full of cookies. “I can sleep 
anywhere to-night.” 

“ There’s two beds in the room,” Mrs. Cupps re¬ 
peated. “And the first thing to-morrow I’ll redd 
up one of the other front rooms.” 

“That will be fine,” Waddy called after her as 
she ascended the stairs to fulfill her mission. 

Somehow he was strangely touched by his re¬ 
ception. The knowledge that all these years the 
faithful old couple had kept the house in readiness 
for the owner’s return, his return, gave him a queer 
little thrill. The sense of ownership laid hold of 
him. How wonderful it was to have a home, a 
home of one’s own, a house where one’s family had 
lived! And to think that all the years that he had 


INSIDE THE FENCE 65 

been wasting in revelry and debauchery this won¬ 
derful old place had been his and he had known 
nothing of it, might never have known of it had it 
not been for the telegram he had received and for 
the stranger girl’s challenge! 

There were a hundred questions that he wished 
to ask, a score of things to be explained, but to¬ 
night it was all too wonderful just as it was. His 
questions could wait till the morning. Both he 
and Mason were worn out and would be better 
for a good night’s sleep, so complacently he obeyed 
as Mrs. Cupps, returning, bade them each take a 
candle from the hall table and follow her up 
the great staircase to the floor above. Preceding 
them, she turned at the head of the stairs, pausing 
a moment to look furtively about, and led them 
up the hall to a great room on the right in the front 
of the house. 

“This,” she said, holding up her candle that they 
might look about, “is the master’s room, the room 
where old Mr. Waddington himself used to sleep. 
Good-night, young gentlemen, I hope you’ll find 
it comfortable.” 


'66 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

k 

* As the door closed behind the old woman’s bent 
little figure Waddy and Mason looked interestedly 
about. At the front and side were four great 
windows the rusted outside shutters of which had 
evidently just been flung open. Against the rear 
wall were two bedsteads of black walnut, canopied 
above and curtained below, high old four-posters 
gaudy with their covering of many-coloured patch 
quilts. Between the windows in front was a great 
flat walnut desk, and at the side of the room stood 
an old-fashioned secretary, its shelves and cubby¬ 
holes suggestive of all sorts of secret hiding-places. 
On the wall was an engraving or two, time-stained 
and faded, and framed over the flat desk was 
a sampler in the corner of which Waddy by 
the aid of his candle made out in straggling 
embroidered letters: “Anne Waddington, her 
work”—his grandmother’s sampler. 

Although the night air, pure and cool, was 
streaming in from the windows that Mrs. Cupps 
had flung open, over everything hung an air of 
mustiness—the odour that dwells in rooms long 
unused. 




INSIDE THE FENCE 67 

“It won’t take me long to get to sleep,” said 
Mason, hurriedly preparing for bed. 

“Nor me,” said Waddy, reluctantly abandoning 
his explorations and setting down his candle. “I’d 
no idea how tired I was until I got up here.” 

“We’ve both been hitting it up pretty hard,” 
said Mason, climbing into bed. “It won’t do 
either of us any harm to have a little of this quiet 
country life.” 

Waddy, in pajamas, and about to blow out his 
candle, was just going to say something in assent, 
when the stillness of the night was broken by a 
terrific racket on the floor below. 

“What’s that?” cried Mason in alarm, sitting 
up in bed. 

“God knows,” cried Waddy, picking up his 
candle and making a dash for the door. “I’m 
going to find out. It sounded as if it came from 
the back of the house.” 

As, candle in hand, he reached the head of the 
stairs, there came a second crash, apparently al¬ 
most directly below where he stood, a nerve- 
racking noise, like the smashing of a lot of tin- 


68 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


ware. He hesitated there, remembering the auto¬ 
matic he had thrust in his bag and wondering 
whether he had not better return for it. As he 
stood, undecided, peering into the hall below, all 
at once the crashing stopped. He heard a man’s 
muffled curse, the slamming of a door, the sound 
of footsteps outside the house as if someone was 
running away, and on top of it all came an ex¬ 
clamation of wrathful dismay from a voice he 
recognized. 

“Mrs. Cupps,” he called, excitedly, as he dashed 
down the stairs, “what is it? What’s happened?” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Hurd,” said Mrs. Cupps, 
suddenly appearing before him, clad now in a 
flannel wrapper, coming apparently from the back 
of the house. “You can go right back to bed 
again. Nothing more will happen to-night. I set 
a trap for him”; she chuckled viciously, “piled up 
a couple of dishpans at the pantry window for him 
to stumble over if he tried again to get in that 
way. I knew that one or t’other of them would 
try it again. Drat them, they’re both getting 
desperate, they are.” 


INSIDE THE FENCE 69 

“What on earth are you talking about?’’ cried 
Waddy. “Who’s getting desperate?” 

“Go on to bed,” the old woman insisted. 
“There’s nothing you can do to-night and it’s 
too long a story to be starting now.” 

“But who was it?” persisted Waddy. “It was 
somebody trying to get in—who was it?” 

“Well, if you must know,” said the old woman, 
tartly, “it was your great-uncle Matthew.” 



CHAPTER V 


A WOMAN LISTENS 

T HE studio was on the top floor of an old- 
fashioned residence just off Fifth Avenue 
below Fourteenth Street, a mere box of a 
place, a work-room with one great north window 
and a cubby-hole listed by the landlord as a bed¬ 
room and bath. Its only advantage lay in the 
fact that, being comparatively inaccessible, four 
flights up and no elevator, it was comparatively 
inexpensive. Before the window at an easel a 
girl—a black-haired girl in a gingham smock—sat 
fighting the fading light as she tried to complete 
the colouring of some costume sketches before the 
darkness came. 

From time to time she glanced at a wall clock to 
note the hour, as if conscious that the time was 
flying and she soon must dress to keep an engage- 

70 


A WOMAN LISTENS 


7i 

ment, but as a matter of fact her mind was neither 
on her work nor on the time. 

Strive as she would Anne Sevigne could not keep 
her thoughts from wandering to her adventure of 
the evening before. How had she ever dared, she 
wonderingly asked herself. On the spur of the 
moment, as she was passing a restaurant—it had 
been nearly midnight—she had heard a merry 
group announce their destination as Waddy Hurd's 
apartment. Waddy Hurd! Trusting that each 
might think her a friend of the others, she had 
joined them, and, undiscovered, had shared in the 
birthday revel, marvelling to herself that all the 
while no one had bothered to ask her who she was. 

Though her cheeks reddened even now at the 
thought of her temerity, and although it appalled 
her to picture her own discomfiture had she been 
publicly denounced as an uninvited intruder, still 
she was gloating that she had done what she did. 
She recalled that several times she had noticed her 
host looking in her direction and she was inclined 
to believe that he at least suspected that she was 
there unbidden, yet he had said nothing. He had 




THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


72 

not seemed in the least to resent her speaking to 
him as she had at her departure. He had seemed 
rather interested than otherwise. 

But had he accepted her challenge? Had he 
really gone to Ortonville as he had promised ? She 
must try to find out. 

There came a knock, a familiar double knock, 
on her studio door. 

“Oh, bother,” she exclaimed, looking again at 
the clock. “He wasn’t due for a full hour yet.” 

As she rose to open the door the look of annoy¬ 
ance that had darkened her face quickly vanished, 
and a smile of welcome greeted the young man 
standing there. 

“Why, Dave,” she cried, “you’re early. I didn’t 
expect you for fully an hour. I’m not dressed 
yet.” 

“Sorry, Anne,” said her caller. “I only dropped 
in to make my apologies. Something’s turned up 
and I can’t take you to dinner to-night.” 

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” she assured 
him. 

“It’s a rotten trick to play you, to call it off at 


A WOMAN LISTENS 


73 

the last minute, but it can’t be helped. Just as 
I was leaving the office to-night the boss called me 
in. He seemed all worked up about something and 
asked me if I could dine with him to-night at seven 
at the Trianon.” 

“Mr. Parsons, you mean?” she asked. In the 
six months she had known David Blaine he often 
had talked with her casually about the men in the 
law office where he was employed, so that she 
knew most of them by reputation. 

“Yes, old Parsons. I can’t figure out what he 
has up his sleeve. He said something about send¬ 
ing me off on a confidential mission and wanting 
to talk with me.” 

“Of course you have to dine with him under the 
circumstances. Don’t give me a thought.” 

“He probably won’t keep me later than nine. 
Maybe I could see you then and we’d have a bite 
of supper somewhere.” 

“Telephone me and I’ll meet you.” 

“Fine, and now I must be off to dress.” 

“It’s the Trianon where you’re dining, isn’t it?” 
the girl asked, her face lighting up. 


74 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“ Yes,” Blaine called out as he hurried away. 

For a moment after he had departed Anne 
Sevigne stood at her door buried in thought. A 
daring idea had come to her. The Trianon was 
where Maggie Noonan was hat girl, Maggie, whose 
mother had been her own nurse. Maggie would 
do anything for her. She must try it. 

A little before seven, simply dressed in a dark 
frock, she was holding a whispered conference 
with her hat-girl friend at her station at the en¬ 
trance of the basement restaurant. 

“Sure,” said Maggie, delightedly, “you can slip 
right in there between the two coat racks and never 
a soul will lay eyes on you. I’ll fix it with Jules, 
the head waiter, when the two of them come to 
plant them at one of the little tables over there. 
There’ll be nothing between you but the lattice 
that holds the coats and you can hear every word 
they say. Hey, Jules.” 

Gravely the head waiter listened as Maggie ex¬ 
plained her idea, his Gallic soul delighting in the 
intrigue the plan suggested, and his Gallic heart 
delighting in Maggie. 


A WOMAN LISTENS 


75 

“My friend here,” explained Maggie, “will 
give a little cough when she sees them come in, 
and I’ll hold up two fingers like this and you’ll 
know it’s them and put them at that table over 
there.” 

“She will say nossing, do nossing.” 

“Not a word out of her. She just wants to hear 
what they’re talking about. She’s secret service,” 
whispered Maggie, who was not without imagi¬ 
nation. 

The head waiter nodded understanding^ and 
when Elwood Parsons arrived with David Blaine, 
they promptly were located at the table selected, 
where Miss Sevigne, secreted among the coats, 
by straining her ears could hear their conversa¬ 
tion. 

“I suppose, Blaine,” said the elder lawyer, as 
soon as the dinner order was disposed of and the 
waiter had left them, “you have been wondering 
what’s up.” 

He was still nervous and overwrought although 
he was doing his best to conceal it from Blaine. 
His mind was now more firmly made up than ever. 


76 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER ’ 

Hurd must marry Frieda. He was determined 
henceforth to keep closer watch than ever on his 
client and at all odds he must thwart the risk of 
discovery. 

“ You said something,” answered Blaine, “about 
sending me off on some sort of a confidential 
mission.” 1 

“Yes. You know young Hurd—James Wad- 
dington Hurd—one of our clients?” 

The listening girl behind the screen drew a long, 
excited breath. She had guessed right. 

“Of course I know about him. Everybody 
knows about him. I have seen him in the office 
once or twice.” 

“Has he ever seen you? Would he recognize 
you if he saw you anywhere?” 

“No, he’s never seen me. He wouldn’t know 
me from Adam.” 

“That’s fine. Have you ever heard of a man 
named Henry T. Jessup?” 

“ I have seen the name in papers at the office. I 
never have laid eyes on the man himself.” 

“Have you ever happened to sign any letter ad- 




A WOMAN LISTENS 


77 

dressed to him? Would he recognize your name 
if he heard it?” 

“No, certainly not. I have never handled any 
of that correspondence.” 

“One more question. Have you ever been in 
a place called Ortonville?” 

“Never. I have heard the name, but I don’t 
even know where the place is.” 

“That’s fine, Blaine. You are just the man for 
the job.” 

“Thank you,” said the young man, palpably 
pleased with the compliment. “Just what is it 
you wish me to do, Mr. Parsons?” 

“That’s the devil of it. I can’t give you 
any definite instructions. There’s something 
mysterious going on, and I haven’t been able 
to get a line on it. Here’s young Hurd play¬ 
ing around town with never a thought of any¬ 
thing. All at once he comes down to my office 
and asks a lot of questions and dashes off to 
Ortonville.” 

“Why Ortonville?” 

“ He has some property up there, the home where 


78 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

his great-grandfather lived, but so far as I know he 
never even knew he owned it until yesterday. A 
local agent, this man Jessup, has looked after the 
property for us for years. Young Hurd’s sudden 
interest in the place, his dashing off there, needs 
explaining. There’s something wrong somewhere. 
I want to find out what it is. I want you to go up 
there and keep tabs on him. Without letting 
either Hurd or Jessup know who you are, I want 
you to go up there and stay until you discover 
what’s up. Watch every move Hurd makes and 
report it to me.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Parsons, I’ll do it, but-” 

“But what?” 

“This Ortonville, I understand, is a small coun¬ 
try village. It is going to be rather hard to find an 
excuse for staying there without arousing sus¬ 
picion.” 

“That’s up to you.” 

Miss Sevigne, behind the screen, decided that 
she had heard enough for her purpose. Slipping 
quietly out, with a whispered word of thanks to 
her confederate, she hurried home to change her 



A WOMAN LISTENS 


79 

costume for a brighter one and to be ready when 
Blaine telephoned her. 

Ten o’clock found her with Blaine in a little 
French restaurant they occasionally visited. 

“Would you like to dance?” Blaine asked as 
they took their seats. 

“If you don’t mind, Dave,” she said, “I’d like 
a bite to eat first, and let’s talk.” 

“You poor thing. I forgot, you’ve had no 
dinner.” 

“ I didn’t mind,” she answered. “ I was busy— 
working.” 

“Now tell me,” she demanded, as she sat eating, 
“about this soft snap Mr. Parsons has picked out 
for you.” 

“It isn’t going to be any snap that I can see,” 
said Blaine, gloomily. “He wants me to go up 
and camp in a little country village and keep tabs 
on one of the firm’s clients without letting any one 
in the village know what I’m there for. That’s 
going to be some job. You know how gossipy 
these country places are with everybody poking 
their noses into everybody else’s business.” 



8o 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“ Yes, indeed, I know,” said his companion, em¬ 
phatically. “I grew up in a place like that.” 

“I’ve got to think up some plausible reason for 
staying in the blamed place and darned if I can do 
it.” 

“What’s the idea of it all, anyhow?” 

“Sorry, it’s confidential stuff. It concerns one 
of our rich clients.” 

Anne took the plunge. “ I’ll wager it’s that Mr. 
Hurd—James Waddington Hurd,” she said. 

“How on earth did you guess it?” asked Blaine, 
blankly. 

“He’s the only one of your clients I ever have 
heard you talking about. He’s young and rich, 
and every once in a while I see his name in the 
papers about some crazy sort of thing he has done. 
I just guessed at it.” 

“Well, since you know that much, I don’t see 
what harm there will be in telling you the rest of 
it.” 

Forthwith he proceeded with the story that Mr. 
Parsons had unfolded to him at the dinner table, 
concluding with another complaint about the dif- 



A WOMAN LISTENS 81 

ficulty of finding a plausible excuse to account for 
his presence in Ortonville. 

“ There’s one way/’ said Miss Sevigne, mis¬ 
chievously. 

“What?” he asked, eagerly. 

“Suppose you knew a girl living there and went 
up there to see her. The village would think 
nothing of it and the longer you stayed the more 
certain they would be that the girl was the reason 
for your staying.” 

“But,” protested Blaine, “I don’t know any girl 
there.” 

“Yes, you do,” said his companion, softly. 

“Who?” 

“I come from Ortonville.” 

“You!” 

He looked at her in astonishment. 

“You don’t mean it?” 

“Yes, indeed, I lived there for years. It’s funny, 
but I have just been thinking of running up there 
for a holiday. I haven’t seen my grandfather for 
a long time. If I were there you could come up 
to see me.” 


82 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“That would be simply grand. Can’t you ar¬ 
range to go and then I can come up there on a 
visit?” 

A shade fell across the girl’s face. 

“I am afraid,” she said, hesitantly, “I cannot 
ask you to visit me at my home. My people are 
old and not accustomed to company, but you could 
stay in the village, and we could let the villagers 
see us together often enough to get their tongues 
wagging and mask the real purpose of your visit. 
There’s a Mrs. Tucker who takes in boarders 
when she can get them. You can stay at her 
house.” 

“I say,” said Blaine, a sudden suspicion coming 
into his mind, “you don’t know this Hurd chap, 
do you?” 

“He’s never been in Ortonville before that I 
know of. It is years and years since any of his 
family have lived there, although I know where 
the home of the family is. Everybody in Orton¬ 
ville knows it. It’s called the old Waddington 
place, but generally they speak of it as the Cupps’ 
place. That’s the name of the caretakers.” 


A WOMAN LISTENS 83 

“Funny you never mentioned anything about it 
all the times we talked about young Hurd.” 

“Nobody would ever think of him in connection 
with Ortonville. It’s the sleepiest, stupidest old 
place in the world.” 

“But you will go up there, won’t you, and help 
me cover my tracks?” 

“I’ll go right away—to-morrow, in fact.” 

“Fine. We can go up together.” 

Firmly Miss Sevigne shook her head. 

“ That would never do at all. I will go up there 
to-morrow and you can come up the following day. 
The neighbours then will have it that you followed 
me up there. They’ll all regard you as my ardent 
suitor.” 

“As far as that goes, you know, Anne, that 
I-” 

“None of that, David,” the girl answered, 
quickly. “Remember, it is part of our pact of 
friendship that you are not to propose to me 
again.” 

“But-” he began. 

“No,” she interrupted. “I mean it. If we are 





84 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

going to continue to be friends you must stop try¬ 
ing to make me marry you. There are reasons 
why I can’t marry you—why I can’t marry any¬ 
body.” 

“Well, at any rate, you’ll dance with me,” said 
the young lawyer, unabashed. The argument be¬ 
tween them was too ancient even to affect his 
spirits, and with the effervescence of youth, casting 
aside all thoughts of the mysteries that confronted 
them, they continued to dance merrily until mid¬ 
night. 

But that night, as Anne Sevigne, alone once 
more in her studio, crept into bed, thoughts of 
Ortonville, of strange gray old men, of gloomy 
houses, of bitter words, of an unsolved mystery, 
kept coming into her head and troubling her 
thoughts in wild, weird dreams that disturbed her 
throughout the night. 


CHAPTER VI 


A STORY OF HATE 

W ADDY HURD’S face, as he began hur¬ 
riedly to dress, wore a troubled look 
entirely foreign to its usual aspect. Al¬ 
though, tired from his long motor trip and the pre¬ 
vious night’s dissipation, he had slept soundly 
enough, the minute he awoke there came to his 
memory the puzzling occurrence of the night be¬ 
fore, apparently an attempt on someone’s part to 
gain surreptitious entrance to the house. He and 
Mason, discussing it for an hour before they fell 
asleep, had been utterly unable to arrive at any 
sort of a logical theory to account for it. 

It was unlikely, both had agreed, that there was 
any great amount of money in the house, nor had 
they seen any indications of anything else in the 
way of valuables that might tempt a thief. They 
had been equally certain that their arrival had had 

nothing to do with the invasion. Mrs. Cupps ap- 

85 


86 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


parently had been anticipating the burglary and 
had been positive that she knew the identity of the 
intruder. 

“It was your great-uncle Matthew/’ she had 
said to Waddy, but beyond that not a word of ex¬ 
planation would she make. 

Burglar though his relative might be, Waddy, 
as he meditated on the events of the night before, 
found himself rather delighted at the notion of 
having discovered at least one kinsman. Perhaps 
he might find that there were others of his blood 
living in the vicinity. A glow of friendliness 
toward these unknown relatives took hold of him. 
After having believed for so long that he was with¬ 
out a living relative, it was fine to realize that he 
was not the sole remainder of the Wadding ton 
stock after all. 

His toilet completed, he cast a glance toward 
the bed where Mason was, and was rather de¬ 
lighted than otherwise to discover that he was still 
asleep although it was after nine and Mrs. Cupps 
had twice knocked on their door. It was just as 
well, Waddy decided. He would go down and 


A STORY OF HATE 87 

see what the possibilities for breakfast were and 
while alone have it out with Mrs. Cupps. He was 
firmly determined to wring from her everything 
she knew about his kinsfolk. 

As he descended to the lower hall fragrant odours 
led him to a dining room in the rear where he 
found awaiting him home-made sausages browned 
in great cakes, new-laid eggs, steaming coffee, and 
as he seated himself the old housekeeper appeared 
with a heaping plate of buckwheat cakes hot from 
the griddle. Ordinarily breakfast to him was 
just a bitter thought, but now to his own amaze¬ 
ment he found himself eating everything that was 
put before him and eating it with a relish. 

“Mrs. Cupps,” he said as she finished waiting on 
him, “won’t you sit down and have a cup of coffee 
with me? There’s a lot I want to ask you.” 

As she served him he had been studying her ap¬ 
pearance. She was a quaint figure, but even in 
broad day there was an air of mystery about her. 
She had an odd habit, too, of stopping right in the 
middle of a sentence to listen—to listen appre¬ 
hensively as if for some unwelcome sound. 



88 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“Thank you, Mr. Hurd,” she replied, “I had 
my breakfast a good three hours ago.” 

“Sit down, anyhow,” he urged, “and tell me 
what you know of my great-uncle Matthew, and 
why he tried to break into this house last night.” 

Stiffly the old woman sat down on the edge of a 
chair, her perturbation showing in the nervous way 
in which she kept wrapping and unwrapping her 
wrinkled hands in the folds of her gingham apron, a 
defiant gleam coming into her eye, and her thin blood¬ 
less lips setting themselves into a firm, hard line. 

“Fifty years I’ve been with the Waddingtons, as 
my mother was before me,” she said, “but it is 
not for me to be talking about the family. Long 
ago I learned to keep my mouth shut about what 
went on here, and it’s well that I did.” 

“But don’t you understand,” pleaded the young 
man, “that I know nothing whatever about my 
family history? I have lived abroad most of my 
life and both my parents are dead. I did not learn 
until yesterday that I was the owner of this house. 
I did not even know it existed. I never even 
knew that I had a great-uncle Matthew.” 


A STORY OF HATE 


89 

“ Small loss,” ejaculated Mrs. Cupps, her eyes 
flashing, the words seeming to escape her in spite 
of her determination to reveal nothing. 

“ At least you can tell me where he lives.” 

“The two of them”—she paused in that queer 
way of hers—“live just down the road at the foot 
of the hill, in two brick houses just alike.” 

“Two of them!” 

“Yes, two. Your great-uncles Matthew and 
Mark Waddington.” 

“ Great!” cried Waddy. “Two uncles, two rela¬ 
tives I never even suspected that I possessed. I 
am going off this very minute and call on them to 
introduce myself.” 

“Oh, Mr. Hurd,” cried the old woman in alarm, 
rising in her excitement, her eyes darkening with a 
look of fear, “whatever you do, you mustn’t think 
of going there. No good can come of it.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not for me to be telling you. You’ll find 
out soon enough.” 

“Tell me,” threatened Waddy, “or I’ll go down 
there right away.” 


go 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“Oh, no, Mr. Hurd,” she cried, in her despera¬ 
tion seizing the lapels of his coat in both her hands. 
“You mustn’t. That’s the one thing you shouldn’t 
do. Promise me that you won’t, at least not until 
you have seen Mr. Jessup. It wouldn’t be safe 
for you, what with them both desperate with hate, 
a hate they’ve carried these forty years.” 

“Hating each other—what for?” 

“Even if I knew, and I’m not saying I do, it 
isn’t for me to tell you. Always the Waddingtons, 
all of them, have been close-mouthed, secretive, 
keeping things to themselves and grieving over it. 
I doubt if even Mr. Jessup knows what it is all 
about, but if any one does it’s Mr. Jessup. See 
Mr. Jessup before you do anything; promise me 
you’ll see him.” 

“Where does Mr. Jessup live?” 

As Waddy asked the question his mind was 
again busy with the sinister chain of events that 
had led him to this movement, trying in vain to 
connect in some satisfactory way the perturbing 
links. First there had come that telegram, hinting 
of impending murder, then there was the manifest 



A STORY OF HATE 


9i 

antagonism toward the Waddingtons that he had 
encountered when he stopped at the village store. 
There was the faithful old housekeeper, evidently 
living in dread that the house would be invaded, 
firing at him and Mason before she learned their 
identity, setting dishpan traps to snare midnight 
intruders, and now her frightened anxiety lest he 
should undertake a visit to either of his great- 
uncles. What, he wondered, could be the mean¬ 
ing of it all? What was this strange pall of mys¬ 
tery, of hate, that hung over the Waddington 
family in this village community that had been 
their home for more than half a century? 

“Mr. Jessup lives down in the village,” Mrs. 
Cupps was explaining. ‘‘ It’s just across the public 
square and a bit beyond. You’ll have no dif¬ 
ficulty in finding his place. You must have 
passed it coming here last night. It’s the first 
white-painted big frame house you come to. Any 
one can tell you where it is.” 

“All right,” said Waddy, yielding, “I’m off to 
see Jessup.” 

“And you promise you won’t go near the Wad- 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


92 

dingtons, not till you’ve seen him?” the old woman 
urged, still clinging to his coat. 

“I promise,” said Waddy, gently freeing the 
grasp of the wrinkled hands, and hastening out to 
his car. He was glad that Mason was not yet up 
and that he could set out on his quest alone. 
Until he found out just what this mystery was 
about his home and his kinsfolk, he did not feel 
like taking any one into his confidence. He was 
almost sorry now that he had invited Mason to ac¬ 
company him. Whatever this tragedy of hate 
might be that had come with his legacy, where- 
ever it might lead, the feeling had taken possession 
of him that it was something not to be lightly dis¬ 
cussed with others. The spell of the Wadding- 
tons, “who always had been close-mouthed,” 
seemed to have laid hold of him, to have sobered 
him, to have sealed his lips. 

As he flung open the front door and strode 
across the broad porch to the driveway, he paused 
and turned to look about him. In the sunlight 
the air of neglect that he had sensed in the dark¬ 
ness was everywhere manifest. Even the walls of 


A STORY OF HATE 


93 

the old house were covered with lichens and moss. 
The great trees on the driveway here and there 
showed wind-broken branches. What might have 
once been a lawn now was overgrown with tall 
weeds among which some rose-bushes, long since 
turned wild, struggled for existence. Circling the 
house were odd-looking rows of little mounds of 
earth, some of them freshly dug. Surrounding it 
all, the tall, unpainted fence of iron pickets seemed 
almost to give it the air of a deserted prison. As 
he stood there Mrs. Cupps came running out with 
the key for the padlock on the gate. 

“Hereafter,” he ordered, “leave it unlocked.” 

“ As you say, Mr. Hurd,” she answered, shaking 
her head dolefully. “ My responsibility has ended, 
thank God.” 

The sight of her, a little frail old faithful servi¬ 
tor, breathing hard from her exertion, filled him 
with sudden compunction. 

“Look here, Mrs. Cupps,” he said, kindly, “you 
must have some help here. It is too much for you 
to do alone. The very first thing to-day, I want 
you to go to the village and hire a couple of maids, 


94 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


or a maid and a man to help you in the house, 
some one to do the heavy work and the cooking.” 

“Very well,” she assented without protest. “I 
will—that is, if you are going to stay.” 

“Of course I’m going to stay,” said Waddy, em¬ 
phatically. “IPs my home.” 

“For how long, do you think?” 

“Until,” he hesitated for an answer, “until 
everything is settled, till everything is cleared up. 
I’m going to stay,” he concluded, firmly, “until 
I’ve found out what it’s all about if it takes the 
rest of my life.” 

“And your friend, Mr. Mason?” 

“I don’t know. Probably only a few days.” 

With a wave of his hand to the pathetic old figure 
who stood watching him, he drove off, wondering 
as he did so how long Mason would be content with 
the simple life. There was nothing to keep Mason 
in Ortonville, or to hold his interest. It was not at 
all unlikely that Mason would be wanting to leave 
at once, Waddy reasoned. Well, the sooner the 
better. The desire to be alone, to work the thing 
out for himself, had seized him. 


A STORY OF HATE 


95 

As he drove slowly down the hill he had no dif¬ 
ficulty in recognizing the two brick houses that 
Mrs. Cupps had spoken of, the homes of his two 
great-uncles, Matthew and Mark. Side by side 
they stood, two square, solid-looking mansions 
perhaps a hundred feet apart, undoubtedly more 
recently built than the old house he just had left, 
yet showing the same air of neglect. Their man¬ 
sard roofs, with small round windows, their closely 
shuttered windows on every floor, gave them some¬ 
thing of the appearance of twin fortresses. Stop¬ 
ping his car, Waddy studied the buildings curi¬ 
ously. Neither of them showed any sign of 
occupancy. Had it not been for what Mrs. Cupps 
had told him he would have been inclined to be¬ 
lieve that both of them had long been unused as 
dwellings. The shutters with their rusted hinges, 
their paling fences, unpainted, broken here and 
there, their weed-grown yards, gave them the ap¬ 
pearance of being tenantless. But as he looked he 
noted between them an object, or rather two ob¬ 
jects, that caused a whistle of astonishment to 
escape his lips. 


96 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

At a point exactly between them arose an old 
brick wall, or rather two walls, side by side, one 
extending upward fully eighteen feet, and the other 
topping it by at least six inches, each effectually 
shutting off from the other house all possibilities 
of a view. From their weather-beaten appearance 
both walls had been standing there for many years. 

“It’s a spite wall,” said Waddy to himself 
“—walls of hate! How my esteemed great-uncles 
must love each other!” 

Overcome with a feeling of depression that he 
could not throw off, he speeded up his car and 
quickly passed the houses, but when he was fifty 
yards away he could not resist a backward glance 
at them. As he looked he saw the shutters of a 
rear window on the ground floor of the house near¬ 
est him thrust cautiously open. He had just a 
glimpse of an old man’s bearded face peering out at 
him, a face twisted for an instant with a look of 
incredulous surprise that quickly gave way to a 
malevolent glare, an almost demoniac look of hate, 
that, as the shutters were pulled quickly to, 
seemed to convulse the old man’s whole face. 

i 



A STORY OF HATE 


97 

“I wonder/’ said Waddy, giving a little shiver, 
“ whether that was my great-uncle Matthew, or 
was it my great-uncle Mark?” 

But whichever of them it might have been, he 
was wholly at a loss to account for the evil look 
bestowed on him. His kinsmen might hate each 
other, but why on earth should they hold any 
spite against him? He was still puzzling about it 
when he reached the public square, where he de¬ 
cided to stop at the same place as they had the 
evening before to ask his way. The storekeeper, 
seeing him, abandoned a customer on whom he 
was waiting and hastened to the door, a look of 
incredulous amazement on his face. 

“How’d you get here?” he asked. “I thought 
sure when you didn’t come back last night that 
you must have driven on over to Goshen. You 
don’t mean to say the old woman let you into the 
house last night?” 

“Of course she did,” said Waddy, tartly, not at 
all inclined to start a conversation. 

“ Well, that beats me. I wouldn’t have thought 
it. What on earth did you say to her?” 


98 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“ Nothing. I just told her my name.” 

“And you slept there last night?” 

“Certainly.” 

“And didn’t nothing happen?” 

“No, nothing happened,” lied Waddy. “What 
did you expect might happen?” 

“You never can tell,” the storekeeper answered, 
shaking his head dubiously. “All sorts of queer 
things have been happening lately up there on the 
hill.” 

“Well, what I want to know,” said Waddy, “is 
where Henry T. Jessup lives.” 

“Just up that road apiece,” said the storekeeper, 
pointing the direction. “ The first big white house 
you come to. If he ain’t home his sister’ll be there 
and she’ll tell you where to find him.” 

“His sister?” echoed Waddy, blankly. “Isn’t 
Jessup married?” 

“Nup, neither one of them is. What did you 
ask that for?” 

Waddy’s only answer was to start his car, leav¬ 
ing the storekeeper standing there gaping after 
him. A theory that had been forming in his mind 


A STORY OF HATE 


99 

had been rudely shattered. He had been striving 
in some way, some logical way, to connect the 
stranger girl who had been at his party with the 
arrival of the telegram and with Ortonville. It 
had been quite within the bounds of reason, he had 
decided, to suppose that Henry T. Jessup might 
have a daughter and that she was the girl who had 
challenged him to come here. Jessup’s daughter 
naturally would know a lot about the Waddington 
affairs. While it still did not explain her presence 
in his apartment, it at least would account for her 
interest in the telegram. He had hoped, in locat¬ 
ing Jessup, to get some trace of her. 

But Henry T. Jessup wasn’t married. That 
disposed of the supposition that the girl was his 
daughter. He was still on a blind trail as far as 
her identity went. 

Who could she be? What could be her interest 
in the tangled, troubled affairs of the Waddington 
family? And why had that look of fear come into 
her eyes as the telegram was read aloud? 


CHAPTER VII 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 

T HE big white house was set square in the 
middle of a big plot of ground around which 
ran a white paling fence, and by the gate 
was a one-story building, also painted white, with 
an entrance from the street. The door stood open, 
revealing a desk littered with many papers, a shelf 
of law-books, and a tall, clean-shaven, white-haired 
man. His air of dignity and self-importance 
marked him at once as the person described by a 
tin sign above the door as “Justice of the Peace 
and Commissioner of Deeds.” 

“Mr. Jessup,” said Hurd, entering unan¬ 
nounced, “my name is James Waddington Hurd. 
You sent for me.” 

“Well, well, well, pleased to meet you, Mr. 
Hurd,” the old man said, rising and extending his 
hand cordially. “You’ve come sooner than I 

IOO 



i < c 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW ioi 

thought you would, but you’ve come none too 
soon at that.” 

“The way you put that telegram I didn’t dare 
delay. You seemed to think my coming might 
prevent a murder.” 

“So it might, and then again it mightn’t. 
There’s no telling what them Waddingtons will do. 
Maybe your coming will only make matters worse. 
Still, it seemed only right to wire you. I got your 
address from a New York newspaper.” 

Waddy stood regarding him with a mystified 
look on his face. To whichever side he turned, here 
in Ortonville, it seemed there was always some 
blind, mysterious reference to something, relating 
to his family or his kinsfolk, although everybody 
seemed reluctant to explain what it was all about. 

“Look here, Mr. Jessup,” he said with decision, 
“what’s up? I’ve got to know all about it. Re¬ 
member I have been living abroad most of my life, 
and know practically nothing about my family. 
I didn’t even know until yesterday, when Mr. 
Parsons told me, that I owned the old homestead 
here. I had no idea that there were any Wadding- 


io2 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


tons alive. I thought I was the last of the stock. 
I had never heard of my great-uncles Matthew and 
Mark.” 

“How did you hear about them so quick?” 
asked Jessup, evidently surprised. “Didn’t you 
just get here?” 

“No, I motored up and slept last night in the 
old house.” 

“Well, well, well,” the old man ejaculated, 
amazedly. “Did anything happen?” 

“Somebody tried to break in during the night. 
Mrs. Cupps said it was Great-uncle Matthew. 
She was too much for him. He got all tangled 
up in a dishpan trap she set for him and raised a 
devil of a racket. He ran away without getting 
caught, but what he was after, I have no idea.” 

“I know,” said the old man, nodding his head, 
vigorously. “I know what it was. Sit down and 
I’ll tell you all about it. It’s a long story. You 
say you know nothing of your family history?” 

“Very little,” said Waddy, seating himself in a 
chair opposite Jessup’s. “I remember my Grand¬ 
mother Hurd. I used to be taken to see her oc- 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 103 

casionally when I was a kid. I know that her 
name was Anne Waddington and that she came 
originally from Ortonville. I have been told that 
her father, after whom I was named, was a silver¬ 
smith in New York, who when he retired settled 
here.” 

“That’s right so far,” said Jessup. “It was 
your great-grandfather Waddington who built the 
house in which you slept last night. I remember 
him well. I used often to see him when I was a 
boy. A fine type of an old Britisher he was, for all 
the years he had been a naturalized American. 
A conservative he was, regular Church of England 
man. There’s a story round here that he hoped 
for many sons and planned to name them after 
the twelve apostles. Anyhow, he started off with 
Matthew and Mark, and that’s all there ever was 
excepting the one girl, your grandmother.” 

“Was she the youngest?” asked Waddy. 

“No, she was a daughter by his first wife. She 
was about ten years old when he came up here to 
live. He had just married again, a woman much 
younger than himself. She bore him the two boys 


io 4 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

about two years apart, and then she died. Well, 
old Mr. Waddington was a very positive character, 
always trying to run everybody and everything 
about him. Failing in his hope for a big family he 
set out to plan the lives of his sons for them. He 
set aside a generous dower for his daughter and 
announced his intention of dividing the rest of his 
estate equally between his two sons. His own 
house he planned to keep, with eighty acres about 
it, as the home of the Waddingtons, to belong to 
his daughter and her heirs, with the idea that it was 
to be always kept up by the estate. For his sons he 
built twin brick houses at the foot of the hill, the 
rest of the estate being split into two portions to 
go with each house. The houses were to be the 
homes of Matthew and Mark when they married.” 

“I’ve seen the houses,” said Waddy, as Mr. 
Jessup paused in his narrative. “Did the sons 
marry?” 

“You bet they did,” said Jessup, reminiscently, 
“and that’s where all the trouble started. You 
see, Mr. Hurd, in those days life was far different 
from what it is to-day. There were not nearly so 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 105 

many things to distract and amuse people, and 
they got to looking at everything all out of pro¬ 
portion. They took such things as politics and 
religion most seriously. A Republican wouldn’t 
think of trading at a Democrat’s store and Pres¬ 
byterians and Methodists hardly considered each 
other fit to speak to. Neither one of them would 
have anything to do with a Roman Catholic. 

“It was all very well for the old man to plan 
out the lives of his two sons, but Matthew and 
Mark, as they grew up, just naturally took to 
pulling apart and going separate ways. When 
Matthew paraded for Tilden, Mark he up and 
began making speeches for Hayes. A shouting 
Methodist came along holding revival meetings, 
and Matthew got converted and became a shout¬ 
ing Methodist. It must have been a great blow 
to the old man, but with all his stiff-neckedness, he 
was peace-loving and he made the best of it. Then 
a few months later a French family—French- 
Canadians they were and Catholics—settled here. 
There was a girl in the family. Mark Waddington 
fell in love with her and took her off to Albany and 



io6 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


they were married by a priest, he becoming a 
baptized Catholic. Right away he brought his 
bride back here to live, and though it must have 
been a bitter pill for the old man to swallow, he 
gave him the house he had set apart for him. 
Then Matthew, as if not wishing to be behind his 
brother, he up and married, and of course he 
picked a Methodist girl. 

“And there they were, living side by side, 
hardly a hundred feet apart, one a shouting Metho¬ 
dist and the other a Roman Catholic, and both of 
them being converts, twice as bigoted as if they’d 
been born to it. Every Sunday, as long as the old 
man was alive, they all went together to the big 
house to dinner, but all Ortonville knew that out¬ 
side of that they didn’t have anything to do with 
each other. There was no visiting back and forth, 
and when the womenfolk met anywhere they 
turned their backs on each other and even the two 
brothers passed each other like strangers. 

“Whether or not there were any stormy times 
at the big house nobody knows, for the Wadding- 
tons never were any great hands for talking over 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 107 

their affairs, but it doesn’t seem likely. There was 
the old man’s fortune to be considered, and it 
seems more than likely that for the sake of the 
money both families tacitly buried the hatchet 
while in the old man’s presence. For all that, 
everybody knew about the two families hating 
each other. The daughter Anne, they say, made 
several attempts to bring them together, but 
failed. Then she married and went away, the old 
man settling a hundred thousand dollars on her. 
She only came back here once after that, just for 
her father’s funeral.” 

“How long ago was that?” asked Waddy, who 
had been giving an attentive ear in an effort to 
keep his family’s history straight in his mind. 

“ It was exactly thirty-nine years, eleven months 
and two days ago,” said Jessup. 

“You seem to have kept rather exact track of 
it,” said Waddy, amazedly. 

“There’re darned good reasons why I should 
have,” said the old man, vehemently. “When I 
show you a copy of your great-grandfather’s will 
you’ll understand why.” 


io8 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


Rising from his desk he knelt before a large old- 
fashioned safe, and after a five minutes’ struggle 
with the combination, succeeded in opening it. 
From within he produced a japanned tin box that 
he set on his desk. Meanwhile, Waddy sat si¬ 
lently looking on, busy with his own thoughts, 
trying to visualize fife in the old days in Orton- 
ville. What did people do with themselves? It 
must have been a drab, dull time to live in. No 
wonder the people of those days took their poli¬ 
tics and their religious prejudices so seriously. 
Doubtless it was almost the only way they had of 
getting any excitement. 

“Here,” said Jessup, unfolding a time-stained 
document on his desk, “is a certified copy of the 
last will of James Waddington, Esq.” 

Interestedly Waddy began its perusal, reading 
every word carefully, right from the beginning 
paragraph: 

In The Name of God. Amen. I, James Waddington, 
of Waddington Towers, in the village of Ortonville, in the 
State of New York, and late of the City of New York in 
the state aforesaid, being of sound and disposing mind, do 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 


109 


hereby declare and affirm that this is my last will and 
testament. 


It was a holographic will, written in long, sweep¬ 
ing shaded strokes by a careful penman, the ink as 
rich and black almost as on the day it had been 
drawn more than four decades before. There was 
a paragraph setting side a generous sum for the 
maintenance of the Waddington lot in the village 
cemetery and directing the sum that was to be 
spent for a tombstone. There followed certain 
specified gifts to old friends, to various charities 
and hospitals, a bequest of ten thousand dollars 
to the Protestant Episcopal church of Ortonville. 
Followed a paragraph bequeathing to “my be¬ 
loved daughter, Anne Waddington Hurd, wife of 
Henry Taylor Hurd,” the homestead, Wadding¬ 
ton Towers, and eighty acres surrounding it, with 
the expressed hope that she would maintain it 
always as the family home of the Waddingtons, 
the paragraph concluding that, “whereas she has 
already received her dower, she is to have no 
further share except such as may revert to her in 


no THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


my estate, excepting the homestead heretofore 
mentioned, and all that it may contain .” 

The last six words were underscored, as if it had 
been the intention of the writer to call particular 
attention to them. 

“And here,” said Mr. Jessup, pointing to the 
next paragraph, “comes the joker that started all 
the trouble.” 

It had been my intent and desire to divide equally be¬ 
tween my two sons, Matthew and Mark Waddington, all 
the residue of the real estate of which I die possessed, in 
the hope that they and their families might dwell side by 
side in unity, but with grief in my heart at their unfilial 
conduct, observing that they no longer regard each other 
with affection and brotherly love. 

I do hereby will, and direct that they and each of them 
shall have the use and occupancy of the house he occupies 
with the two hundred acres set apart for it, as indicated in 
the plan hereto attached, but I direct and charge that the 
title to these properties shall not pass to them, or either of 
them, until such time as the two of them with their fami¬ 
lies, publicly kneeling together in brotherly love, shall 
have confessed their sins and have been received into the 
communion of the Protestant Episcopal Church of America, 
and furthermore, in the event that this shall not have taken 
place within forty years after the date of my death, it is 


Ill 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 

my wish and will that the two properties aforesaid, with 
the houses thereon, shall on that date revert to my estate, 
and shall be inherited by my beloved daughter, Anne 
Waddington Hurd, her heirs and assigns, excepting that 
during the aforesaid period of forty years death shall have 
claimed one or the other of my sons, thereby terminating 
their quarrel, in which event the surviving son shall in¬ 
herit both properties and both houses and the other pro¬ 
visions of this paragraph shall be of no effect. 

And finally, I do give and bequeath to each of my be¬ 
loved children a golden token, which will be found in a 
drawer in my secretary, these being replicas of the three 
golden links that for many years formed the sign at my 
place of business, the originals having by me been set into 
the mantelpiece in the hall of Waddington Towers. 

When these be joined in unity 
To make a perfect chain, 

The pathway to prosperity 
Will be exceeding plain. 

“What a funny will,” exclaimed Waddy, as he 
finished reading the document. 

“It may be funny,” said Jessup, grimly, “but 
four sets of courts have decided that the old man 
knew what he wanted to do with his property. 
Both of his sons have had a couple of tries at break- 


112 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


ing it, but it didn’t get either of them anywhere. 
Only cost them both a pile for lawyers. But do 
you see what a regular invitation for a killing it 
is?” 

“I don’t understand what you mean.” 

“ Read that tenth paragraph again,” said Jessup, 
pointing it out with his finger. “ Don’t you see 
that if either one of them dies the other one gets 
all the property?” 

“That’s so!” 

“Of course the old man put in that paragraph 
with the best of intentions, hoping that he could 
make his sons friendly again, but he figured that if 
either one of them died, of course it wouldn’t be 
needed. What he didn’t figure on was the in¬ 
ducement he was offering to Matthew and Mark 
to put each other out of the way.” 

“And that’s why you sent for me?” 

“That’s the idea. You see there’s only twenty- 
eight days left, and both of those tarnation fools 
will lose everything unless they make up. They’ve 
been hating each other for forty years and more, 
living there side by side, hating till they’re both 


WHAT MR. JESSUP KNEW 113 

desperate, and now that they face the prospect of 
losing their homes in the next few days there’s no 
telling what they won’t do.” 

“ And as I read the will,” said Waddy, thought¬ 
fully, “if they don’t get together pretty soon, I 
get it all.” 

“That’s right. And there’s another thing, if 
anything were to happen to you, you being the 
last surviving heir of Anne Waddington, there’d 
be nobody else left but the two old fellows to in¬ 
herit everything. If I was you I’d be mighty care¬ 
ful when I’m around where either of them is.” 

“But I don’t want to take their homes from 
them. Isn’t there some way I could deed them 
back to them?” 

“They probably wouldn’t take it if you did. 
They’re both stubborner than sin. They’ve spent 
so much fighting each other, letting their places 
go to rack and ruin, that about all either of them 
has left is the Waddington pride, and both of them 
have a lot of that.” 

“Henry,” said a voice at a door that led into the 
yard, “your dinner’s ready.” 


11 4 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

Waddy, turning at the sound, saw a tall, angu¬ 
lar, white-haired spinster staring curiously at him. 

“ Susan,” said Jessup, “ come in. I want you to 
meet Mr. Hurd,” and as she approached nervously, 
wiping her hands on her apron, he presented them: 
“My sister Susan—Susan, this is Mr. Hurd, Mr. 
James Wadding ton Hurd.” 

“My land,” exclaimed the woman, “another of 
the Waddingtons after them buried jewels!” 

“Buried jewels!” exclaimed Waddy. 

“That’s another story, Mr. Hurd,” said Jessup, 
“you’d better come in and have dinner with us, 
and I’ll tell you about that.” 

“You just bet I will,” said Waddy, enthusiasti¬ 
cally, feeling that he was getting far more thrills 
out of being in Ortonville than he had had any 
right to anticipate. 


CHAPTER VIII 


BURIED TREASURE 



0 MATTER how rich a man may be, there 
is something about the thought of buried 
treasure that sets his heart to beating 
faster and fires his imagination with the desire to dis¬ 
cover it. When Waddy Hurd bade old Mr. Jessup 
and his sister good-bye two hours after their mid¬ 
day meal was finished, he felt that at last he had 
found a mission in life. He was going to discover 
the hiding-place of his great-grandfather’s collec¬ 
tion of jewels. 

It was not, he told himself, that he wanted the 

jewels for himself. When he had discovered 

them, if he was successful in his search, he would 

divide them equally with the other heirs, with 

his step-great-uncles. For that matter they 

could have all of them. It was the idea of the 

search that appealed to him so strongly. At last 

115 




n6 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

he had something to do, something really worth 
while. 

“You see,” old Mr. Jessup’s parting words still 
rang in his ears, “for forty years both of them, 
Matthew and Mark, have been searching every¬ 
where for those buried jewels, digging up the 
ground all over the place, and trying their best to 
ransack the house, with old Mrs. Cupps doing her 
best to fend them off. And to this day neither 
one of them, nor nobody else, has the slightest clue 
to where old man Waddington hid them.” 

“Haven’t you yourself any idea where they 
might be?” Waddy had asked him. 

“Yes and no,” said Mr. Jessup, after a moment’s 
thought. “Often and often I’ve read and re-read 
the old man’s will, and always the last paragraph 
has puzzled me—that bit of poetry right at the end. 
I’ve often wondered if that wasn’t some sort of a 
cipher giving a hint as to where the jewels were.” 

“Do you mind if I take that copy of the will with 
me?” Waddy had asked. “I’d like to study it over 
carefully.” 

“Certainly, take it with you,” Jessup had an- 


BURIED TREASURE 


117 

swered. “ There’s nobody has a better right to it 
than you.” 

And now, as Waddy drove away, the copy of 
the will safe in his inside pocket, he was pondering 
over the strange story that Mr. Jessup had un¬ 
folded. 

When James Wadding ton had retired from busi¬ 
ness it was during the general financial depression 
that had followed the Civil War. While he had 
managed to find a purchaser for his business, 
money was scarce and he had been unable to ob¬ 
tain satisfactory prices for a large collection of 
diamonds, rubies, and pearls that he had amassed. 
It may have been, as often happens with dealers 
in precious stones, that he had become so attached 
to his treasures that he was loath to part with them. 
At any rate, he had brought them with him to 
Ortonville, a really valuable collection. 

“Some say there was a hundred thousand dollars’ 
worth of them, and some say nearer a million,” 
had been Mr. Jessup’s phrase in describing them. 

From time to time, according to Mr. Jessup, old 
Mr. Waddington had exhibited his collection to a 


n8 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


favoured few, although to no one had he ever re¬ 
vealed the secret hiding-place in which he kept it. 
Its existence was fully established by several 
credible witnesses. Jessup himself, as a young 
man visiting Waddington Towers with his father, 
who had been his predecessor in looking after the 
Waddington affairs, had seen the jewels with his 
own eyes. 

“I remember it as well as if it was yesterday/’ 
Mr. Jessup told Waddy. “ Father and I were 
sitting on the front porch talking with the old 
gentleman. He was over seventy then and get¬ 
ting to be pretty feeble, although his mind was as 
active as ever. Father mentioned the jewels and 
asked if I might not see them. Mr. Waddington 
got up and went into the house. He was gone for 
maybe ten minutes. When he returned he was 
carrying a metal box like a document box, only 
made of heavier metal. He opened it up with a 
key. Inside it had a lot of velvet-lined trays, a 
tray for each kind of jewel. It was the grandest 
collection of diamonds, rubies, and pearls I ever 
laid eyes on. There was one big diamond that he 


BURIED TREASURE 


119 

said was worth over ten thousand dollars. There 
was a big pearl necklace, too, all big fine stones 
perfectly matched up. He told my father that he 
had been twenty years collecting the pearls for 
that and that they had cost him over one hundred 
thousand dollars.” 

“But are you sure that he did not dispose of the 
collection before his death? ” Waddy had asked. 

“He couldn’t have. It was only a day or two 
after that that he had a stroke, and after that he 
was never out of his house again until he died, and 
there was no one came to see him who might have 
bought them. If he had sold the collection my 
father would have known it. He handled all the 
old gentleman’s financial affairs.” 

“Maybe,” suggested Waddy, “he might have 
given them to his daughter, to my grandmother.” 

“No. After she was married she never came 
back here again, and never saw him again .until 
she came for the funeral and saw him lying dead 
in the coffin.” 

“She might have found them after the funeral 
and carried them away with her.” 


i 2 o THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

\ 

“No chance of that. When she arrived her two 
step-brothers were already in the house, ransacking 
the place while their father’s body still lay there. 
She put them out and gave strict orders that they 
never were to be let in the house again. Cupps was 
the butler, a determined sort of chap, and my 
father put him in charge to carry out her orders, 
and neither of them has been knowingly admitted 
to the house since, for Mrs. Cupps since her hus¬ 
band’s death has been just as watchful as he was. 
She’s been too much for old Matthew and Mark. 
There’s another thing, if your grandmother ever 
had had those jewels she would have worn them. 
No woman would have a hundred-thousand-dollar 
pearl necklace and not put it on once in a while.” 

“That’s true,” said Waddy. “I inherited some 
jewels of Grandmother’s, but I’m certain there was 
no pearl necklace among them.” 

But where then could the jewels be? To 
Waddy’s mind, as he drove slowly homeward, 
there recurred the odd bit of verse at the end of old 
Mr. Waddington’s will. Was Mr. Jessup right 
about it? Did they form some sort of cipher that 


BURIED TREASURE 


121 


gave a clue to the hiding-place of the treasure? 
As he passed through the village and reached a 
spot where there were no houses in sight he stopped 
the car and, taking the will from his pocket, slowly 
read over its last paragraph aloud: 

“When these be joined in unity 
To make a perfect chain, 

The pathway to prosperity 
Will be exceeding plain.” 

As he sat there reading and re-reading the words, 
trying to discover some hidden meaning in them, 
his attention was attracted by an odd-looking pro¬ 
cession coming along the road behind him. There 
were five persons in it, and to his amazement he 
saw that the tiny figure in advance, apparently 
marshalling the others, was his housekeeper, Mrs. 
Cupps. Curiously he waited until she came up 
with him. 

“Why, Mrs. Cupps,” he called out, “who are 
these?” 

“Well, sir,” she said, “but you instructed me to 
get some servants and I have, a butler, a waitress, 


i22 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


and parlour maid, a cook and an upstairs girl, the 
same as we had in your great-grandfather’s time.” 

“But where on earth did you get them all so 
soon?” asked Waddy, marvelling at the old wo¬ 
man’s unsuspected capabilities. 

“My cousin, over to Goshen, was to housekeep 
in a summer hotel and she had written me that they 
was to open this week, but it wasn’t ready. So 
I went down to the village and got her on the tele¬ 
phone and she sent me these people. Driggs, here, 
was hired as the head-waiter, and Mrs. Driggs 
was the cook, so they know their business. The 
two maids here are all right, my cousin recom¬ 
mended them.” 

“Fine,” cried Waddy. “All of you get into the 
car and I’ll run you up to the house. Mrs. Cupps, 
you get in here beside me. I want to talk to you.” 

As with the car full Waddy started on again, he 
turned curiously to the little figure beside him. 

“Mrs. Cupps,” he asked point blank, “do you 
know where my great-grandfather hid the jewels?” 

“How should I know?” 

“You have heard about them?” 


BURIED TREASURE 


123 


“ Everyone hereabout has heard of them.’’ 

“Did you ever read a copy of the will?” 

“Many's the time.” 

“Do you think that last paragraph, that poetry, 
means anything?” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised. The two of them al¬ 
ways thought so.” 

“What did they think it meant?” 

“If you’ve read it, you’ll remember it says 
something about ‘a perfect chain.’ Them two, 
Matthew and Mark, always figured that referred 
to the distance at which the jewels was buried.” 

“A chain! ” cried Waddy. “ I’ve forgotten what 
that is, although it seems to me that when I 
studied arithmetic there was some such measure.” 

“That’s one of the things that Matthew and 
Mark has been quarrelling about all these years. 
There’s two kinds of chains. A regular survey¬ 
or’s chain is a hundred feet long, but there’s what 
they call ‘Gunter’s chain’ and that’s only sixty-six 
feet.” 

“But where do you suppose it was to be meas¬ 
ured from?” asked Waddy, puzzled. 


124 THE waddington cipher 

“Did you happen to notice, all about the house, 
a circle of little mounds, like as if the earth had 
been dug up, or rather two circles?” 

“Come to think of it I did, and was wondering 
about them.” 

“Well, old Mr. Waddington every day, winter 
and summer, used to sit for hours in a big chair on 
the porch, and that chair always was placed in the 
same spot. One or the other of the brothers got 
the idea that the jewels might be buried ‘a perfect 
chain’ away from that chair, and he started slip¬ 
ping up at night and digging. The other one, 
figuring a chain to be sixty-six feet, started digging 
nearer the house. Two or three times in the past 
forty years they’ve had spells of digging. About 
a month ago they started at it again.” 

“Have you tried to stop them?” 

“No,” said the old woman, grimly. “My orders 
always has been to keep them out of the house, and 
that’s as far as I’ve gone.” 

“Then you think the jewels are hidden in the 
house?” 

“ I can’t say as to that. It’s just that I have had 



BURIED TREASURE 


125 

enough trouble keeping them out of the house with¬ 
out looking after the grounds. Anyhow, I figured 
that they hadn’t ever found anything or they 
wouldn’t have started digging again.” 

“ Haven’t either of them ever got into the 
house?” 

“Never for long. Both of them has tried it time 
and again, but I’ve been too much for them. If 
the old man hid the treasure in the house, it’s still 
there. You can count on that.” 

“Then it was the hidden treasure that my 
grand-uncle Matthew was after last night when he 
tried to get into the house?” 

“They try it every once in a while—both of 
them,” the old woman answered with a vicious 
chuckle. “Lately they’ve been at it worse than 
ever.” 

“How do you account for that?” asked Waddy, 
carrying on his conversation with his housekeeper 
in as low tones as possible, for he did not wish the 
newly hired servants back in the tonneau to over¬ 
hear their remarks. 

“Mr. Jessup read you the will, didn’t he?” 



126 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“Yes, of course.” 

“That part about them having to give up their 
homes unless they had a public reconciliation.” 

“Silly old fools!” cried Waddy. “Why don't 
they wake up and carry out the directions of the 
will? Then everything would be all right.” 

“It ain’t the Waddington way,” old Mrs. Cupps 
answered with a sigh. “The Waddingtons are 
great for sticking to their word.” 

“Damn it all, if I didn’t owe it to my great¬ 
grandfather’s memory to do my best to carry out 
his wishes, I’d give them both a quit-claim deed 
and be done with it. God knows I don’t want to 
take their homes from them.” 

“I doubt if either of them would take anything 
from you. Fact is, I’m thinking they’ll both be 
hating you worse than they do each other as soon 
as they find out you are here.” 

“But why should they hate me? I’ve done 
nothing to them.” 

“You’re a Waddington, and that’s enough. 
'They’ve been hating so long that—*—” 

Pier words died on her lips, and Waddy, too, in 



BURIED TREASURE 


127 

blank amazement, jammed his foot down on the 
brake, bringing the heavy car to such a sudden 
stop that the frightened servants behind them 
were flung together in a promiscuous heap and old 
Mrs. Cupps was all but hurled into the road. 

Down the road, directly toward them, running at 
full speed, her face white and drawn with fear, 
came a girl—Waddy’s stranger girl—and in her 
hand she was carrying a great heavy axe, a blood¬ 
stained axe. 

“My God—she—here!” gasped Waddy. 

Straight on past them she sped, an unseeing look 
in her frightened eyes—running as if fleeing from 
Terror itself. 

Too surprised for speech, Waddy sat for a mo¬ 
ment staring after her, his brain in a turmoil. 
Who was this girl? What was she doing here in 
Ortonville? What could have frightened her? 
What could she be doing with that blood-stained 
axe? A sudden movement at his side attracted his 
notice. 

Mrs. Cupps, recovering from the position into 
which she had been thrown by the unexpected 
stop, had risen from her seat and was standing up t 





128 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


looking after the fleeing girl, her old eyes kindling 
with anger, as she muttered to herself: “It’s her. 
It’s that French hussy come back.” 

As Waddy, more puzzled than ever, debated 
which of two courses was most advisable, whether 
to spring out of the car and hurry after the girl to 
see if he could be of some assistance to her, or 
whether first to question old Mrs. Cupps as to the 
girl’s identity, the old woman at his side turned 
toward him, her voice rising almost to a shriek. 

“For God’s sake, Mr. Hurd, get us home as 
quickly as possible. There’s been mischief done. 
It’s come at last. There’s murder there. Hurry, 
hurry!” 

“Murder!” cried Hurd in amazement. 

“Hurry,” she begged him, offering no further 
explanation. 

Under the spell of her excited entreaties he 
jammed on the power and the car shot forward, 
making the rest of the distance in hardly more than 
a minute. At the sight of the front door standing 
wide open there came from Mrs. Cupps another 
frenzied outcry. 


BURIED TREASURE 


129 

“Look, Mr. Hurd, look! The front door stand¬ 
ing wide open and Mr. Mason promising he’d keep 
it locked. There’s murder, I tell you.” 

“Nonsense,” Waddy answered, even though 
something of her terror found echo in his heart. 
“Mason has just gone out for a stroll about the 
place and forgotten to close the door. That’s 
all.” 

Raising his voice, he shouted, “Oh, Mason, 
hello. Where are you?” 

He waited, but no answer came. He shouted 
again. Still there was no response. As he brought 
the car to a stop before the open door, Mrs. Cupps’ 
fears had taken strong hold on him. There must 
be something wrong. If Mason was anywhere 
about, why did he not answer? 

The minute the car stopped Mrs. Cupps was out 
of it and making for the open door, and Waddy 
quickly followed, leaving the wondering servants 
gaping after them. 

“Look,” screamed Mrs. Cupps, as together they 
entered the house, “what did I tell you?” 

She pointed excitedly to the great staircase lead- 


130 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

ing from the lower hall. Plainly outlined on its 
polished wood was a thin trail of red, a trail of 
drops of blood. 

Now, really alarmed for his friend’s safety, 
Waddy sprang up the stairs, crying out Mason’s 
name. Close at his heels came Mrs. Cupps. In 
the upper hall, their steps guided by the little red 
trail, they hurried toward the bedroom that he and 
Mason had occupied the night before. In the 
doorway Waddy stopped short and a horrified 
gasp escaped at what he saw. The secretary was 
smashed and Mason’s body was lying motionless 
on the bed, his hands and feet tied, a cruel gash in 
his skull just behind the temple showing where the 
axe had struck him. 

“It was her—that girl—she’s killed him,” came 
a shrill cry from Mrs. Cupps just behind him. 

Quickly Waddy made his way to the bed and put 
his hand on Mason’s heart, delighted to find that 
it was still faintly beating. 

“Quick,” he cried, turning to Mrs. Cupps, “get 
a doctor at once. He’s still alive. Perhaps we 
can save him. Or wait,” he added, remembering 




BURIED TREASURE 


131 

that there was no telephone, “I’ll take the car and 
have a doctor here in a jiffy.” 

Running downstairs, he flung aside the fright¬ 
ened servants who clustered about trying to ques¬ 
tion him, and springing into his car, dashed off 
toward the village. 

As at perilous speed he dashed on, his mind was 
in a turmoil. He found it all but impossible to 
believe what his eyes had seen. There was Mason 
lying there all but lifeless, his skull gashed with a 
heavy instrument. There was the girl he had seen 
running away with a bloody axe in her hand. There 
was Mrs. Cupps’ statement that it was she—* 
“the French hussy come back”—who had done it.. 

Yet in spite of everything, he could not, would 
not believe it. 

Whoever it might have been that had attacked 
Conway Mason, whatever the motive that in¬ 
spired the attack, James Waddington Hurd in¬ 
stinctively knew that it could not have been his 
stranger girl who had done it. 



CHAPTER IX 


SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 

A FROWN gathered on Anne Sevigne’s face 
/ % as she waited at the station gates for the 
nine o’clock train to be announced. It 
was a slow train, stopping at every freight shed, 
but it was the only one connecting with the Orton- 
ville Branch. Tiresome as the trip would be she 
had hoped to make it alone. She was not at all 
certain what conditions awaited her in her former 
home, and she had judged it best to arrive a day 
In advance of Blaine to get her bearings. 

And now she saw Blaine approaching through 
the throng. The bag in his hand indicated that 
he was planning to take the same train and not 
merely coming to see her off. 

“Good morning,” he called out, cheerily. 

“You weren’t to come up till to-morrow,” she 
said, reprovingly. “That was our agreement.” 


132 


SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


i33 

“Couldn’t help myself/’ he answered, “and I 
can’t see that it makes much difference, anyhow. 
Old Parsons seems all wrought up over this affair. 
He called me on the phone this morning, almost 
before I was out of bed, to insist on my taking the 
first train there was.” 

“But it doesn’t suit my plans at all,” protested 
Anne. 

“I’d think you’d be glad of my company—of 
anybody’s company,” retorted Blaine. “It’s a 
tedious trip. I’ve just been looking at the sched¬ 
ule.” 

“It isn’t that.” 

“Well, what’s the matter, then?” asked Blaine. 

“I—I—I haven’t been up home for five years, 
not since I was eighteen,” said the girl. “It’s— 
it’s a queer sort of a place and I’m not sure how I 
will find things.” 

“Well, don’t worry about it,” said Blaine, pick¬ 
ing up her bag as the train was announced, “we’ll 
find out when we get there.” 

Escorting her to a seat, he ensconced himself be¬ 
side her without waiting for an invitation, and 


i 3 4 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

began ineffectual attempts to start a conversa¬ 
tion. 

“ It gets me why old Parsons is so keyed up. I 
guess he must have a line on what Hurd is doing up 
there, something he didn’t confide to me. What 
do you suppose it is?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Anne. 

Blaine was quite aware that for some reason his 
presence on the train had perturbed her, but, pre¬ 
tending not to notice it, he rattled on about the 
curious mission on which he had been dispatched. 
Since she had told him that Ortonville had once 
been her home he could not but suspect that Anne 
knew far more about James Wadding ton Hurd 
than she had admitted. In all probability, he de¬ 
cided, she could make a good surmise as to what the 
nature of the business was that had taken him to 
Ortonville. But if the purpose of his chatter was 
to draw Anne out of her silence it failed utterly. 
She sat there, seemingly preoccupied with her own 
thoughts, apparently giving little heed to what he 
was saying, and giving him monosyllabic answers 
only when he put a question to her direct. 


SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


135 

One thing Blaine noticed about her that puzzled 
him. Always heretofore when he had seen Anne 
Sevigne, whether in her studio, on the street, or in 
a restaurant, she had affected rather bright colours, 
but now she was garbed in the plainest of black 
tailor-mades that seemed to bring to her a sombre, 
almost depressing note. 

After several more ineffectual attempts to in¬ 
terest her in his conversation he gave it up, and 
she buried herself in a magazine—or her own 
thoughts. Not until after they had changed to 
the branch train and were nearing their destina¬ 
tion did Anne speak to him. 

“When we get off/’ she said, abruptly, “we’ll 
have to separate at once. There generally are at 
least two hacks at the station. Put me in one of 
them and you take the other and drive to Mrs. 
Tucker’s and see if you can arrange to board there.” 

“But,” cried Blaine, “when am I to see you, 
then? Remember, you suggested that I make the 
village think I was a suitor of yours so that my real 
mission wouldn’t be suspected.” 

“Meet me to-morrow,” said Anne, after a mo- 



136 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

merit’s thought, “at the post-office. The mail 
gets in on this train and there’s always a crowd 
there at this hour. If we meet there and walk 
away together the whole town will know it before 
dark.” 

“But,” protested Blaine, “can’t I come to your 
home to see you?” 

“Oh, no,” Anne cried, quickly. “Whatever you 
do you mustn’t do that. No! That’s utterly im¬ 
possible.” 

“That’s a shame,” began Blaine. 

“There’s one thing more,” said Anne, hastily, 
interrupting him as the train came to a stop at their 
station. “Up here everyone knows me as Wad- 
dington—Anne Waddington.” 

“Then your name isn’t Sevigne?” 

“Yes, that’s my real name—but it’s too long a 
story. I can’t explain it now. But don’t forget. 
Call me Miss Waddington.” 

“You’re related to the Waddingtons, then?” 
said Blaine, accusingly. “Why, you’re a relative 
of James Waddington Hurd!” 

“No,” cried Anne, vehemently, “I’m not. 




SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 137 

Thank God, there’s none of the Waddington blood 
in me.” 

Much mystified by this sudden revelation, and 
eager to question her further, Blaine had no oppor¬ 
tunity to do so. The minute she was off the train 
Anne hopped into the least disreputable of two 
ancient automobiles waiting for fares and was off 
without a word of farewell, off so quickly that 
Blaine had not even a chance to hear her whispered 
instructions to the driver about her destination. 
More puzzled than ever at her manner, and utterly 
unable to account for the frightened, furtive way 
she was acting, he slowly got into the other taxi 
and was driven to the boarding house of which 
Anne had told him. 

His arrangements for a room quickly completed 
and his luggage deposited in it, Blaine’s mind re¬ 
verted to the mission on which Mr. Parsons had 
sent him to Ortonville. Realizing that there was 
little opportunity or likelihood that he would see 
Anne until the next day, he decided to pay a visit 
to the old Waddington place to inspect it and get 
an idea of its surroundings. If he was to carry out 


138 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

his employer’s instructions conscientiously, as was 
his intention, he felt that it behooved him to start 
at once in search of information on the activities of 
James Waddington Hurd, and as a first step he in¬ 
tended to familiarize himself with the domicile of 
his quarry. 

Recalling the fact that Anne had told him that 
the people of the neighbourhood generally spoke 
of the Waddington home as “ the Cupps’ place,” 
he asked his landlady for directions as to how to 
reach it. 

As he put the question to her, speaking quite 
casually, he was amazed at the effect his apparently 
idle query had on her. She gave a quick start and 
looked at him, manifestly with suspicion in her 
eyes. There seemed to come into her face some¬ 
thing of fear, too, and she opened her lips as if to 
speak some word of warning to him, but, hesitating, 
apparently changed her mind. In an expression¬ 
less tone, that carried with it in spite of her effort 
at suppression a hint of an inward struggle, she 
gave him the information he sought. 

As he set out on his quest he turned back to look 


SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


i39 

at his new boarding place, not with any intention 
of spying, but merely to make sure that he would 
be able to recognize the house on his return. He 
was startled to see the frightened face of his land¬ 
lady peering after him from between the curtains. 
As he looked she raised her hand, as if to call him 
back, then let it fall again, although she kept 
watch on him until he was out of sight. 

Her confusion of his simple question, coupled 
with the other mysterious circumstances he had 
encountered, filled Blaine, as he climbed the hill 
toward Waddington Towers, with a strange sense 
of apprehension. What, he kept asking himself, 
could be the secret that he had been sent here to 
discover? Why had Mr. Parsons been so insistent 
on his immediate departure and why had Anne 
been endeavouring to delay his coming? What 
motive could young Hurd have had in coming here 
so suddenly? And why was Anne so uncom¬ 
municative about it? Surely she must know far 
more about the affair than she would have him 
believe. If the people hereabout called her Wad¬ 
dington, she must be in some way connected with 


140 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

the family even though she had so vehemently 
denied relationship. 

As he advanced on up the hill he had no dif¬ 
ficulty in recognizing the place of his search. The 
iron picket fence, the only one of its kind in the 
vicinity, made an excellent mark of identification. 
He walked slowly along the road, gazing curiously 
at the great old house, now in the daylight clearly 
visible among the trees, marvelling at its unten¬ 
anted appearance and the general air of neglect 
about the spacious grounds. 

Wishing to get a better view of the place, yet 
not caring to have his surveillance observed by the 
occupants of the house, Blaine kept on up the hill 
until he came to a place where the iron pickets 
turned off at a right angle, marking the boundary. 
Glancing about to make sure that no one was ob¬ 
serving him, Blaine cautiously climbed the fence 
and let himself down into the grounds, trusting to 
the thick underbrush to screen him from the sight 
of any one passing along the road. Working his 
way among the trees he succeeded in reaching a 
point hardly two hundred feet from the front door 


SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


141 

where a small hillock gave him an excellent post of 
observation. Screening himself behind a thickly 
foliaged bush, he peered out for a closer inspection 
of the premises, but drew back quickly as the front 
door opened and a man emerged. Never having 
seen Conway Mason, Blaine did not recognize him. 

Fearful that an attempt at flight would reveal 
his presence, Blaine sank back behind the bush, 
though keeping a watchful eye on the person who 
had emerged. His first thought had been that the 
man was Hurd, but on second glance he saw it was 
no one he had ever seen before. What was this 
stranger doing here? If Mr. Parsons had known 
of any one having come up with Hurd he surely 
would have mentioned it. 

Much puzzled, Blaine from his hiding-place 
watched the stranger as he strolled about and ob¬ 
served him curiously as he speculatively studied a 
double circle of little mounds of earth that sur¬ 
rounded the house, mounds that Blaine himself 
had noted and had been wondering about. Pres¬ 
ently the man he was watching turned about sud¬ 
denly and went into the house. Blaine, feeling 


142 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


that nothing more was to be gained by his vigil, 
was about to take a stealthy departure when a 
movement at the end of the front porch, the end 
away from him, attracted his attention. 

Two faces—men’s faces—suddenly appeared 
there. 

From their furtive expression and the stealth 
of their approach, Blaine, excitedly watching 
their every move, decided that they must have 
been lying in wait there for—what? Waiting 
just long enough for a survey of the porch, the two 
men sprang up and made a dash for the open door. 
The leader, Blaine observed, was a thin, weazened, 
white-haired little man, who, despite his apparent 
age, moved swiftly. The man who followed was a 
villainous looking hunchback with an unintelli¬ 
gent cruel face. In one of his powerful arms the 
hunchback was carrying an axe. 

Spellbound by what he had seen, Blaine watched 
and waited. Who could these men be? What was 
going on in the house? The suspense was almost 
more than he could stand. He was tempted to 
rush from his hiding-place and follow them through 



SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


i43 

the open door. But if he should enter the house 
he would be hard put to it to explain his presence 
there. In all probability Waddy Hurd was in the 
house. It might even be that these were some of 
the estate employees come for orders. 

But- 

The thud of blows and the crashing of splinter¬ 
ing wood reached Blaine’s ears. Once more his 
curiosity prevailed over his discretion. Keyed up 
to the point of springing out from his hiding-place 
and making a dash for the house, just as he started, 
something else happened, something so startling, 
that he drew back in sheer amazement. 

Someone was coming through the gate—some¬ 
one running. 

As the runner emerged among the trees of the 
driveway, Blaine gasped in amazement. It was 
Anne—Anne Sevigne. She evidently had run all 
the way up the hill at top speed, for her breath 
was coming in short, painful gasps and her pretty 
cheeks were red from her exertions. Looking 
neither to the right nor left, giving no sign that 
she had seen Blaine, who was standing out in the 




144 THE waddington cipher 

open gaping at her, the girl ran straight on, up on 
to the porch and through the open front door. 

What should he do now? Blaine, utterly be¬ 
wildered by this new development, entirely at a 
loss to account for Anne’s presence there, stood 
pondering on a plan of action without reaching a 
decision. The thud of blows had ceased. All in 
the great old house was silence. Worry about 
Anne’s safety had seized him. Those two men 
who had entered looked like desperate characters 
—at least one of them did, the hunchback. Was 
Anne safe in there with them? 

A scream, a woman’s scream, came from the 
house, from somewhere on the second floor. 
Blaine ran for the open door. That was Anne’s 
voice. If Anne was in peril he must go to her 
rescue, but before he reached the porch he stopped 
short in his tracks. 

From the front door there burst out the two men 
whom he had seen entering a few minutes before, 
the hunchback, now without his axe, in the lead. 
The faces of both were white with terror. They 
seemed to have but one object in mind, to get as 



SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


145 

far away from the house as quickly as possible. 
Although Blaine was standing right by the porch 
in plain sight neither of them paid the slightest 
attention to him. He doubted if in their haste and 
fear they even saw him. Running as fast as they 
could they both vanished through the gate and 
disappeared down the hill. 

Once more, Blaine, in perplexity, hurried back 
to his hiding-place, trying to put two and two to¬ 
gether, to picture to himself what might have 
happened inside the house. His first thought had 
been that Anne, surprising them in some act of 
vandalism, had put them to flight. Certainly they 
had the aspect of being terrorized as they ran 
away. But—a new and terrible thought seized 
him—suppose their terror was inspired by a crime 
they had committed ? Suppose Anne-? 

Once more Blaine ran for the house, reproaching 
himself that he ever had wavered, fearful lest 
entering he might find Anne stricken down by 
the hunchback’s axe, lying lifeless on the floor. 

But before he reached the house out came Anne 
herself. 



146 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

Like those who had preceded her she was run¬ 
ning. In one hand she was carrying the hunch¬ 
back’s axe. In her eyes was the same look of terror 
as in the eyes of the two men who had preceded 
her. She, too, as Blaine stood there staring at her, 
made for the gate and vanished down the hill. 

“ Anne, Anne!” he cried, excitedly, running after 
her. 

If she saw or heard him she gave no heed, and 
Blaine, hesitating for a moment whether to return 
to his hiding-place or to follow her, finally decided 
on the latter. When he reached the gate she was 
already hidden by a turn in the road. 

Blaine stood staring for a moment or two in the 
direction she had gone, then turning sharply made 
off in the other direction away from the village. 
He was possessed with a desire to get away, far 
away from everybody. He wanted to try to think 
it out. 

For hours and hours, alone in the solitude of the 
country roads, he pondered over the afternoon’s 
strange happenings, with each step he took grow¬ 
ing more puzzled. 


SEVERAL MORE PUZZLES 


i47 

Not until it was dark did he turn his steps 
toward his boarding place, and even then he had 
contrived no theory that would account for the 
amazing events to which he had been a witness. 
There was nothing he could do, he had decided, 
but wait—wait until to-morrow when Anne said 
she would meet him at the post-office. 

He dared not investigate further alone. He was 
afraid. 



CHAPTER X 


PLAINLY AN ERROR 

T O EXPLAIN the strange matters at Wad- 
dington Towers it is necessary to go back 
a little to when Conway Mason, left alone 
in the old house and although ordinarily a man of 
steady enough nerves, quickly found himself suc¬ 
cumbing to the spell of its mysteries. The stairs 
began to creak as if with the passing of unseen 
visitors. Wind-rattled shutters made strange 
sounds, and swaying trees gave forth sobs and 
sighs enough to terrorize the stoutest heart. 

It was through no contriving of his own that 
Mason had found himself in solitude. It had been 
nearly one o’clock when Mrs. Cupps’ determined 
knocking had finally awakened him. As he had 
opened his eyes to the unfamiliar sights of the 
faded wallpaper, to the stately old black walnut 
furniture all about him, it had taken him a mo- 

148 


PLAINLY AN ERROR 


149 

ment to realize where he was. It was Mrs. 
Cupps’ voice outside his door that brought him 
to himself. 

“ Mr. Mason, if you want anything to eat you’ve 
just got to get up. Mr. Hurd wants me to go to the 
village and there’s no one else here to wait on you.” 

“ Coming this minute,” called Mason, beginning 
to scramble into his clothes, conscious all at once 
that the fine mountain air that had lured him into 
such sound slumber had also given him a wonderful 
appetite, and that he was very hungry. 

Puzzled as to what had become of Waddy, and 
eager to continue with him the discussion of the 
mysterious events of the night before, as a few 
minutes later he sat down to his breakfast, he in¬ 
quired from Mrs. Cupps as to the whereabouts of 
his host. She evidently was not in a communica¬ 
tive mood. 

“He didn’t say where he was going nor when he 
would be back.” 

“You had a nocturnal visitor—a burglar—just 
after we retired last night, I understand,” he tried 
again. 


150 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Did we?” asked the old woman, tartly. 

“Yes, Waddy told me all about it when he came 
upstairs. His great-uncle Matthew, I think he 
said it was.” 

“ If he said so, I s’pose it was so.” 

“What do you suppose he could have been 
after?” 

“Didn’t Mr. Hurd tell you?” 

“No,” admitted Mason, “he didn’t. The fact 
is, I don’t think he knew. Maybe you can en¬ 
lighten me.” 

“Well, if he didn’t tell you, I ain’t a-going to.” 

“Don’t you know?” asked Mason, pointedly. 

“I ain’t saying I do and I ain’t saying I don’t,” 
Mrs. Cupps replied. “All I’m saying is that I 
ain’t telling what I know and what I don’t know 
except to them as has the right to hear it.” 

“But, you see,” Mason urged, “I’m a friend of 
Mr. Hurd. He brought me up here with him to 
help him find out what was the matter.” 

“ Then ask him,” the old woman retorted. “All 
I know is that you’d better hurry up and finish 
eating. Mr. Hurd ain’t coming back for dinner or 


PLAINLY AN ERROR 


151 

he would have been here by now. If he and you 
are going to have anything to eat to-night I have 
got to get down to the village right away.” 

“Pm all through,” said Mason. “Don’t let me 
keep you.” 

“I’ll be going, then,” said Mrs. Cupps, vanishing 
into the kitchen to return a few seconds later ad¬ 
justing the strings of an old-fashioned bonnet. 
“ You won’t be going out anywhere while I’m away, 
will you? ” she asked, anxiously. “I’ll lock all the 
doors after me like I always do. ’Tain’t safe 
otherwise.” 

“Going to lock me in!” cried Mason, half 
amused, half annoyed. 

“This house has got to be kept locked up now 
more than ever,” she said, determinedly. “The 
key to the front door’s there, right in the lock, if 
you do have to go out, but if you do, for God’s 
sake see that the door’s locked tight behind you.” 

The real terror in her tones impressed Mason in 
spite of his inclination to laugh. What was it or 
who was it that she feared? Why did she insist 
on the doors being all locked? 


152 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“If it will make your mind easier,” he said, 
“ I 5 11 promise you that I won’t leave the house until 
you return, and I’ll keep the doors locked.” 

“It’s better that way,” the old woman an¬ 
swered. “There’s no telling what they mightn’t 
do if they got in.” 

After she departed, Mason, sitting with his 
cigarette, finishing his coffee, sat pondering over 
her words and the strange chain of events which 
had started with the interruption of Waddy’s party 
by Jessup’s telegram. As he sat there, trying to 
figure it all out, he became conscious of an un¬ 
comfortable tingling of his nerves. He seemed to 
be hearing odd, unfamiliar noises and there came 
to him a creepy sensation as though he were being 
watched by unseen eyes. 

“Gosh, but it’s quiet. The little old subway 
would cheer me up about now,” he muttered. 

With a shiver he got up from the table and 
strolled out into the great hall. The huge brass 
key in the lock of the front door attracted his 
notice, and unlocking the door he stepped out 
across the porch and onto the driveway. He 


PLAINLY AN ERROR 


i 53 

stood there surveying the old house and his sur¬ 
roundings, observing curiously a series of small 
mounds, two rows of them, at a uniform distance 
that seemed to surround the entire place. His 
first impression was that they might be some sort 
of gigantic ant-hills, but the regularity with which 
they were spaced indicated that they were of hu¬ 
man contrivance. 

His curiosity aroused, he walked over to inspect 
one of them, finding that the mound came from a 
deep excavation recently made. He tried in vain 
to conjecture for what purpose the holes had been 
dug. They were far too large for post-holes, and 
this refuted the theory that the old woman might 
have had them dug with the idea of erecting a 
double row of defenses of some sort. 

But out in the air and the sunshine his feeling of 
oppression quickly vanished, and his spirits re¬ 
vived. 

“Oh, pshaw/ 7 he said to himself, “the old dame 
living here alone so many years has gone dotty. 
That’s all there is to it.” 

The thought struck him of how amusing it would 


154 THE waddington cipher 

be to his friends and Waddy’s if they could see 
them both and the extraordinary lives they were 
leading. He decided to go back into the house and 
dash off some notes telling about it. It would kill 
the time until Waddy got back. As he reentered 
the house, forgetting all about the warning to close 
and lock the door, he stood in the hall wondering 
where he would find some stationery. Then he 
recalled that he had observed paper and pens on 
the old secretary in the room where they had 
slept, and started upstairs. 

He was writing his fourth note when he was in¬ 
terrupted by a slight noise behind him, a hardly 
audible sound, as of someone moving stealthily 
across the carpeted floor. He raised his head to 
listen, without turning his head, wondering if his 
nerves had tricked him again into imagining he was 
hearing things. Maybe it was Waddy, planning to 
give him a fright. 

All at once two great powerful arms gripped him 
from behind, wrenching his arms sharply back¬ 
ward and pinning them together in an iron grip. 
At almost the same instant a thick red handker- 


PLAINLY AN ERROR 


i55 

chief bandaged his eyes and some sort of an im¬ 
provised gag was forced roughly between his teeth. 
Before he had recovered from his astonishment at 
the unexpected attack, before he had had time to 
make any sort of a struggle, he found himself 
picked up bodily and flung on to the bed, his as¬ 
sailant, whoever he was, apparently being a man 
of almost superhuman strength. 

Blindfolded, bound hand and foot though he was, 
and roughly handled, the gag hurting him terribly, 
Mason nevertheless kept his wits about him and 
resolutely set to gathering in everything he could 
with his ears, hoping to discover why he had been 
assaulted and who had done it. 

As he listened, he became aware that there were 
two men in the room. One of them from his voice 
—old, almost quavering—was an elderly man, 
evidently a man of some culture. The other—and 
he judged this must be the one of the pair that 
had trussed him up—had a rough, heavy voice, like 
that of a farmhand. This much he could judge, 
even though they spoke in guarded whispers and 
he could hear hardly more than the sound of their 




156 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

voices. From other sounds Mason judged that 
they must be busy ransacking the secretary at 
which he had been sitting. There was much rus¬ 
tling of papers and the noise of drawers being 
pulled out and flung on the floor. 

“There’s a secret drawer somewhere,” he heard 
one of the men whisper. 

“The easiest way to find it is to smash it,” the 
rougher voice answered. 

To Mason’s ears as he lay helpless on the bed 
there came sounds that indicated plainly that the 
advice was being followed, the thud of heavy blows, 
the splintering of wood, more blows, an excited 
cry from the older man. 

Sensing that the attention of the intruders would 
be given entirely to their work of destruction, he 
ventured to shift his position, trying to get into 
some posture from which he could see out from 
under the bandage over his eyes. At last, rolling 
and twisting and turning, all the while moving 
hardly an inch at a time so as not to attract at¬ 
tention, he was rewarded by finding his head where 
he could dimly see a part of what was going on. 


PLAINLY AN ERROR 


157 

Only the backs and legs of the two men were in 
his limited range of vision, but one discovery that 
he made thrilled him. 

One of the men in the room was a hunchback. 

He could make out a great, broad, misshapen 
back and over-long, powerful arms. It was this 
man who was swinging an axe that rapidly was re¬ 
ducing the black walnut secretary to kindling. As 
the men paused in their work of demolition, ap¬ 
parently having discovered the secret drawer for 
which they had been searching, Mason, helpless 
though he was to interfere, and conscious, too, 
that he had only himself to blame for his plight for 
having neglected Mrs. Cupps’ warning to keep 
the doors locked, nevertheless was experiencing a 
feeling of jubilation at the prospect of being able 
to identify one of the intruders. The description 
he would be able to give of the hunchback’s ap¬ 
pearance surely would lead at once to the man’s 
arrest. 

The rustling among the papers continued. Evi¬ 
dently the contents of the secret receptacle were 
being subjected to a thorough examination. An 


158 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

exclamation of disappointment came from the old 
man. 

“Ain’t it there?” asked his helper. 

“ There’s nothing there, nothing worth while,” 
the old man answered, his voice shrill with anger 
and disappointment. “It isn’t hidden here, after 
ah.” 

Apparently they had forgotten all about Mason, 
for all discretion cast aside, they were talking in 
ordinary tones and he could hear every word they 
said. 

“My God, where could he have hid them? 
They must be in the house somewhere,” the old 
man cried out, desperately. 

“Maybe they’re buried in the cellar,” the other 
suggested. 

“No, they can’t be. I spent a whole month of 
nights in the cellar, going over it inch by inch, and 
her”—the old man chuckled viciously—“never 
even suspecting I was in the house.” 

“Maybe they’re downstairs somewhere.” 

“We might look, but I can’t think of any place 
they’d be.” 




PLAINLY AN ERROR 


I 59 


“ What are you going to do with him?” 

It was the hunchback’s voice. Anxiously Ma¬ 
son waited for the answer to come. There was a 
moment of silence as if the old man were debating 
his fate. Even through the bandages over his 
eyes, it seemed to Mason that he could feel the 
malevolent glances turned in his direction. 

“Damn him,” the old man cried, his voice shrill¬ 
ing with rage, “you might as well crack him on the 
head and have done with him. It’s all his fault, 
anyhow. If he was out of the way, I could handle 
the other one all right. There’d be one less to 
fight. He’ll be after us for this, if we leave him 
here alive.” 

“But he ain’t never seen us,” the hunchback 
objected. “He don’t know who done it.” 

“ Maybe he might guess. It’s better to put him 
out of the way now. It’ll mean we won’t be 
kicked out of our home like dogs when the time’s 
up. Go on, smash him on the head and finish it 
up.” 

The merciless malignant tone chilled the very 
marrow of Mason’s bones. He realized that the 


160 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

I 

I 

old man, desperate and determined, meant what 
he said. Bound up as he was there seemed no 
possible hope of his escape. He shuddered at his 
impending fate, to be struck down without even a 
chance to fight for his life. Despair seized him, 
as he waited for the blow to fall. 

“Fll do it,” the hunchback said, craftily, “for 
half—half of everything.” 

There was silence for a moment—a silence dur¬ 
ing which Mason could feel the cold sweat pouring 
out of the palms of his hands and his forehead. He 
made a desperate effort to fling himself off the 
bed. At least he would go fighting. The hunch¬ 
back’s great brute hands seized him and flung him 
roughly back on the bed. 

“Half—half of everything,” the hunchback de¬ 
manded again, “and with him gone, your home is 
saved for you.” 

Still there was silence. Mason, ceasing to 
struggle, lay there wondering why they were de¬ 
termined to kill him. It must be that they had 
mistaken him for Waddy Hurd, but even so, why 
were they so eager to have Waddy out of the way? 



PLAINLY AN ERROR 


161 


He could conceive of no possible reason why any 
one should want to murder his friend. Yet, des¬ 
perate as his plight was, he found himself puzzling 
over the whole mysterious affair. What could it 
be that they were making such a desperate search 
for? Did Waddy know about it? Was that why 
he had come up here? How would Waddy’s death 
save the old man’s home? Waddy would be the 
last person in the world to turn any one out of his 
home. It was all a mystery to him. Why didn’t 
the hunchback strike and get it over with? 

Perhaps the old man, Mason decided, desperate 
and ruthless as his actions appeared, balked at 
actual murder, or perhaps he was hesitating at 
pledging himself to give up half—half of whatever 
it was—to the hunchback. 

“All right,” he at last heard a quavering voice 
reluctantly say, “half of everything.” 

He felt himself suddenly freed from the hunch¬ 
back’s grasp. A second intervened in which his 
imagination painted vividly the scene in the bed¬ 
room, the old man standing timorously by watch¬ 
ing him with malevolent eyes, the hunchback 



i 62 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


standing over him, a grotesque, gorilla figure of a 
man, with the heavy axe poised above his head in 
those powerful arms. Despairingly, hopelessly, he 
waited for the blow to fall. 

But instead there came from the doorway a 
startled cry—a woman’s voice. 

“Stop! Amos, what are you doing?” 

To Mason’s confused brain there came the sound 
of muttered curses, the rustle of skirts, the sound 
of running feet, and the woman’s voice again, 
“That’s not Mr. Hurd, I tell you. It’s someone 
else.” 

Followed the thud of a descending axe—and 
blackness. 




CHAPTER XI 


THE WADDINGTON WAY 


m TO,” came explosively from Hurd, “I won’t 
have it. I’m not going to let you call in 
^ any constable.” 

“But,” urged the amazed Mr. Jessup, “accord¬ 
ing to your own account of it it is a plain case of at¬ 
tempted murder, to say nothing of breaking and 
entering. You and Mrs. Cupps and the rest of 
the people in your car saw the girl running away 
with a bloody axe. You entered the house and 
found Mr. Mason lying there all but dead with a 
big gash in his skull. It’s as plain as the nose on 
your face that it was the girl who did it.” 

“I’m not going to have her arrested,” said 
Waddy, doggedly. “She didn’t do it.” 

“Then who did?” exclaimed Mr. Jessup with 
the triumphant air of having propounded an un¬ 
answerable question. 

163 



164 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

It was the next morning after the mysterious as¬ 
sault on Conway Mason. He lay, still uncon¬ 
scious, on the bed where they had found him, 
bound and senseless. The doctor from the village 
whom Waddy had brought back with him had 
been there all night and only a few minutes before 
had gone home for a much-needed rest. Mason’s 
injuries, he had decided, were not likely to prove 
fatal. There did not seem to be any evidence of a 
fractured skull, although the smashing blow had 
produced a severe concussion of the brain. The 
coma, he said, might continue for several days, or 
at any minute consciousness might return to him. 
It was impossible to tell in cases of this sort. 

After summoning the doctor Waddy’s first 
thought had been to get hold of Mr. Jessup as soon 
as possible, but it happened that, right after 
Waddy had left him the afternoon before, Jessup 
had driven over to the county seat on some legal 
business. He had not returned until nearly noon 
the next day, and his sister, immediately on his 
arrival home, had informed him that Hurd wished 
to see him at once. Yet not even to her had 


THE WADDINGTON WAY 165 

Waddy told of the mysterious attack on Mason. 
Charging everybody in the house, the doctor, Mrs. 
Cupps, and the servant, to say nothing to any one, 
he had awaited Mr. Jessup’s coming before decid¬ 
ing on any course of action. 

Mystifying as the whole occurrence had been, 
the only possible explanation that he had been 
able to find for it was that the intruder or in¬ 
truders into Waddington Towers had mistaken 
Mason for him. But even so, why should any one 
want to kill him? Damning as the evidence 
against the girl appeared, he utterly refused to 
believe that she was in any way concerned in it, 
even though Mrs. Cupps seemed positive that the 
girl they had seen running away was Mason’s 
assailant. 

Also Mrs. Cupps’ attitude about it was really 
most puzzling. When she had found that Hurd 
disagreed with her theory, she had firmly shut her 
lips and refused to say anything about it, declining 
even to tell him who the girl was. 

“ If you want to know anything about her, you 
can ask Mr. Jessup,” she said. “I’m through 


166 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


talking even to you about the Waddington family’s 
private affairs. I’ve said too much as it is.” 

Not another word could he get out of her on the 
subject, even though he had done his best to con¬ 
vince her that it was impossible for a frail girl to 
have wrecked the old black secretary and then to 
have bound Mason hand and foot. Yet to every¬ 
thing he said she only closed her lips more firmly, 
though her furtive old eyes showed that she still 
stubbornly disagreed with him. 

Convinced though he was, by intuition rather 
than logic, of the girl’s innocence, it puzzled Waddy 
as to why he found himself so ardently defending 
her. She was nothing to him. He never had seen 
her but twice in his life. The only conversation 
he had had with her had been a few whispered 
sentences the night of his party. She meant 
nothing whatever to him, he told himself. Yet 
in spite of the reassurances he endeavoured to give 
himself there had been almost constantly in his 
mind the picture of her as he had observed her that 
night at the party. He kept scoffing to himself at 
any idea that he might have fallen in love with her, 


THE WADDINGTON WAY 167 

yet he could not forget her personality. There 
was something about her, her sparkling black eyes, 
the sheen of her wonderful hair, the vivacious glow 
of health and purity about her that had caught his 
fancy and held it. Whatever the evidence might 
be against her, no matter how much she might be 
involved by circumstance, he knew that she was 
innocent of wrong. 

Again and again the puzzling queries recurred 
to his mind. Who was she? How was her part 
in the puzzling affair to be accounted for? Why 
was she interested in his affairs, as her challenge 
to him had so plainly indicated? Perhaps Mr. 
Jessup could tell him. 

He turned sharply to the old agent. 

“Who is that girl, anyhow?” 

“ Don’t you know? ” The old man’s expression 
showing incredulity. “Didn’t Mrs. Cupps tell 
you?” 

“No, she didn’t. When she first saw her she 
cried out something about That French hussy’, 
and that’s all. When she found out that I didn’t 
believe the girl had done it she shut up like a clam, 


168 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


and I haven’t been able to get a word out of her 
since. Who is she?” 

“Of course,” said Mr. Jessup, “I haven’t seen 
her with my own eyes, but from what’s happened 
and what Mrs. Cupps said about her there isn’t 
any doubt in my mind but that it is Anne Wadding- 
ton.” 

“Anne Waddington!” cried Waddy, an un¬ 
accountable sense of dismay laying hold of him. 
“Who is she—another relative?” 

“Sure—she’s old Mark’s granddaughter,” began 
Mr. Jessup; then, stopping short, he corrected him¬ 
self: “No, that ain’t right. She’s no relative of 
yours at all.” 

“But she’s a Waddington, you said.” 

“No, she’s not a Waddington at all, though folks 
around here have called her Waddington for so 
long that I almost forgot that she really wasn’t. 
You see, it’s this way. As I told you yesterday 
old Mark, years and years ago, married a French 
girl. They had one son and when he grew up, 
like his father, he married a French woman, a 
widow named Sevigne. She had a young daugh- 




THE WADDINGTON WAY 169 

ter at the time, a child of two. A couple of years 
later Mark’s son and his wife both died leaving 
the child on his hands, and he brought her up. 
Everybody round here always called her Anne 
Waddington.” 

“ And does she live with him now there—in that 
house of hate?” asked Waddy, his thoughts 
imagining a girlhood spent in that bleak, unfriendly 
atmosphere. 

“Not much she doesn’t,” Mr. Jessup answered. 
“I guess she stood it just as long as she could. 
When she was eighteen she came into a bit of 
money her mother had left her. Not much, only 
a few thousands, but as soon as she got it, she 
cleared out. Old Mark didn’t make any objec¬ 
tion, in fact, seemed glad for her going.” 

“Where did she go?” 

“I can’t say as to that. She didn’t take any 
one here into her confidence. I did hear once a 
year or two after she had gone away that she was 
studying art in New York. Somebody from here 
had seen her there. I didn’t even know she was 
back until you told me what Mrs. Cupps had said.” 


170 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Why do you suppose she came back?” asked 
Waddy. He was recalling the telegram he had 
received, and the frightened look that had come 
into her eyes as it had been read aloud. Was it 
on his account, he wondered, that she had come? 

“I couldn’t say as to that, Mr. Hurd, but if I 
was you I’d put the constable on her track right 
away before she has a chance to get out of town. 
If she didn’t do it herself, it’s a pretty safe bet that 
she knows who did do it. Once she’s locked up and 
a few questions put to her, she’ll talk all right.” 

“Under no circumstances is she to be arrested,” 
said Waddy, firmly. “There is no legal evidence 
against her. I won’t have any constable after 
her.” 

“ But something’s got to be done,” protested Mr. 
Jessup, his legal sense outraged. “There’s Mason 
lying near dead upstairs, the victim of an assault 
with intent to kill. It isn’t right not to try to find 
the one who did it.” 

“Time enough to take action when he comes to 
and can tell us what happened. The doctor said 
he might recover consciousness any minute.” 


THE WADDINGTON WAY 


171 

“But supposing he doesn’t come to?” grumbled 
the elder man. 

“He’ll come to. I’ve seen them come back 
after far worse smashes than that.” 

“Something ought to be done right away, I tell 
you,” persisted Mr. Jessup. 

“All right,” cried Waddy, springing up and 
seizing his cap, “I’ll do something.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“You stay here,” said Waddy. “If Mason 
comes to while I am away, Mrs. Cupps will call 
you. Go upstairs and take down what he has to 
say. Get a—what do you call it—a deposition 
from him.” 

“Yes, but what are you going to do?” 

“I,” said Waddy, his lips forming themselves 
into firm hard lines of determination that made 
him look vastly like the portrait of his great-grand¬ 
father under which he happened to be standing at 
the moment, “I am going to do something that 
should have been done forty years ago. I am 
going right now to see Matthew and Mark Wad- 
dington and get them together and have it out 



172 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

with them. This foolishness has lasted far too 
long. It’s all absurd, this hating each other and 
fighting each other that has been going on all these 
years. I certainly don’t want their homes. They 
both are welcome to them and I shall tell them 
so.” 

“But the Waddington treasure—what about 
that?” asked Mr. Jessup. 

“Time enough to divide that up when we find 
it.” 

“ ’Tain’t likely that they’ll let you in, either one 
of them.” 

“Very well, then, I’ll break in,” said Waddy, 
savagely, as he flung himself out of the door. “I’m 
going to bring them together if I have to drag them 
both to a meeting place and crack their heads to¬ 
gether. I’m going to settle the thing once and for 
all and settle it to-day.” 

Mr. Jessup, shaking his head dubiously, followed 
him to the door and stood looking anxiously after 
him until he was hidden by a turn in the road. 
He felt really alarmed for the young man’s safety. 

None knew better than Henry T. Jessup the 


THE WADDINGTON WAY 


i73 

depth of bitter feeling that existed between the 
two brothers, and none sensed half so well as he 
that the long brooding over their fancied wrongs in 
their lives of solitude had turned both the broth¬ 
ers’ brains, making them dangerous foes. It was 
his growing feeling that either one of them might 
break forth into some maniacal crime that had 
caused him to send the telegram to Hurd as a last 
resort. He was half-minded to start in pursuit of 
Hurd and attempt once more to dissuade him, but 
shaking his head, he turned back and settled down 
in the hall to await developments. None knew 
better than he how useless it was to attempt to 
turn a Waddington once his mind was made up. 

Yet could Jessup’s vision have followed Waddy 
a little farther down the road, he quickly would 
have decided that there was no occasion for 
worry. For Waddy, his mind busy with planning 
a course of action with the two old men, phrasing 
the words in which he was going to tell them what 
fools they had been making of themselves, stopped 
short, and caught his breath quickly. 

Some distance ahead of him, from the first of the 


174 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

twin houses, from Great-uncle Mark’s, there had 
emerged a feminine figure, heading rapidly toward 
the village. Even though he had caught only a 
glimpse of her face he recognized her at once. 

It was his stranger girl. 

Overboard went all Waddy’s ambitious plans 
for seeing his two great-uncles. The quarrelsome 
old men were for the moment entirely forgotten. 
Only one thing at that particular instant seemed 
really worth doing, and that was to catch up at 
once with Anne Sevigne and have a talk with her. 
He felt that there was no telling when he might 
have another such opportunity as this. 

There were so many questions he wanted to ask 
her. How had she happened to be present at his 
birthday party? Why had she been so frightened 
when that telegram had been read aloud there? 
Why was she so interested in his affairs? Why 
had she challenged him to come to Ortonville? 
Why had she herself come here? And what was 
she doing yesterday at his home? 

He quickened his step to catch up with her, but 
despite his long strides he soon found that she was 


THE WADDINGTON WAY 


I 75 

walking so rapidly that he was gaining but slowly 
on her. He was tempted to call out to her but 
was fearful of startling her. But for the fact that 
they were entering the village he would have 
broken into a run to overtake her. He hesitated to 
do this, fearing to make them both look ridiculous. 

Meanwhile, David Blaine was dutifully awaiting 
Anne’s arrival at the post-office. Knowing well 
that his exacting employer would be expecting a 
daily report from him, he had spent most of the 
evening and practically all of the morning in 
making a detailed account of the peculiar happen¬ 
ings of which he had been a witness. In it he had 
described the three visitors he had seen entering 
Waddington Towers, the sounds he had heard. 
The only thing he had omitted was any reference 
to the fact that one of the visitors was a girl 
that he knew. He was waiting until after he had 
talked with Anne to complete his report. He had 
decided that Anne was much better posted on the 
affairs of James Waddington Hurd than he hitherto 
had had any reason to suspect, and he was de¬ 
termined to make her tell him everything she 


176 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

knew. The more he had pondered over the mis¬ 
sion on which he had come to Ortonville, the more 
mixed up and mysterious it appeared to be. He 
had spent half the night trying to conjecture what 
could have happened in Waddington Towers, as 
he stood there hid in the bushes watching, and so 
was waiting with excited interest for Anne’s ar¬ 
rival. She ought to know something. 

As he saw her approaching through the village 
square he hurried forward to meet her. He was 
within a few feet of her, oblivious to everything 
but her presence, when suddenly beside her there 

4 

loomed—wholly without warning as far as David 
Blaine was concerned—the tall figure of the man 
he had been sent to Ortonville to watch. 

“Miss Sevigne!” he heard Waddy’s voice call 
out. 

The girl turned quickly, at first startled, and 
then—at least so it seemed to Blaine’s watching, 
jealous eyes—delighted and relieved. 

“Mr. Hurd!” she cried. 

As if it had all been by prearrangement, the two 
of them, James Waddington Hurd and Anne 




THE WADDINGTON WAY 


177 


Sevigne—or was her name Waddington?—turned 
abruptly around and walked away together, con¬ 
versing earnestly, neither one of them giving any 
sign that they had noticed Blaine’s presence. 

Blaine stared wrathfully after them for a mo¬ 
ment. This was Anne—Anne had certainly led 
him to believe that she was not even acquainted 
with Hurd! Angrily he turned about, and not 
waiting to return to his boarding house to complete 
his report, entered the post-office. At the public 
desk he hastily added a few lines to what he al¬ 
ready had written. He had intended to keep 
Anne’s name out of it, but now at the end of his 
description of the strangers’ visit to Waddington 
Towers he added: 

I saw H. for the first time this afternoon. He came to 
the village and met, seemingly by appointment, the young 
woman who visited Waddington Towers yesterday. She 
is known in Ortonville as Anne Waddington, but is also 
known in studio circles in New York as Anne Sevigne. 

“ All right, Anne,” he said as he affixed a special 
delivery stamp to his letter to Mr. Parsons. 
“You did this to yourself.” 



CHAPTER XII 


ONE PLAN UPSET 



PSETTING as had been the unexpected 
meeting of Waddy Hurd and Anne Se- 
vigne to David Blaine, it seemed to be al¬ 
most as embarrassing to the two principals. Each 
of them on the spur of the moment had turned 
instinctively to the other, as if they were old 
acquaintances, yet with no preconceived plan on 
the part of either. 

There were scores of questions that Anne was 
dying to ask, yet she hesitated to begin the con¬ 
versation, having no clue to just how much or how 
little the heir to Waddington Towers had learned. 

Waddy, too, for once, was at a loss for words. 
It was on his lips to reassure the girl that he at 
least believed her innocent, but that seemed a 
brutal opening. For a few steps they walked to¬ 
gether in silence. It was Waddy who spoke first. 

178 



ONE PLAN UPSET 


179 

“That was some party, wasn't it?” he began, 
his mind reverting to the first occasion on which 
he had seen Anne, to the point where his long list 
of unanswered questions began. 

Anne coloured vividly. What at the time had 
seemed to her only a foolish lark now took on a 
very different aspect. If she told him the truth 
he would look on her as over-curious and certainly 
vulgar; and she was all at once conscious that she 
cared, cared very much for his good opinion of her. 
Besides, she had been timorously anticipating that 
his first question would be about the mysterious 
assault on Mason. Surely Hurd had been in 
Ortonville long enough to have gathered the gossip 
about the family. The fact that he had called 
her by name indicated that he already knew her 
history. Even if he had no suspicion of her pres¬ 
ence in Waddington Towers the day before he 
must have comprehended that she was in some way 
concerned in the involved affairs of the Wadding¬ 
ton family. 

At any rate, she felt that she must be on her 
guard with him. If Mason had been fatally in- 


i So THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


jured, or if he had already died, someone must be 
punished for it. Yet an instinctive desire to 
shield Mark Waddington from the consequences 
of his folly possessed her. It was not that she 
loved her grandfather, as she had always called 
him. Her feeling was more akin to pity, her own 
private belief being that his long brooding in his 
solitary home had unbalanced his mind. 

While the axe, when it had fallen, had been in 
Amos’s hands, her grandfather’s farm-hand al¬ 
ways had been a weak-wit, a mere creature of his 
employer, and the crime, if crime it was, she felt 
was solely Mark Waddington’s. 

As his remark brought no response from her, 
Waddy, looking down at her reddening cheeks and 
perturbed eyes, hastened at once to reassure her. 

“Of course,” he said, abruptly, “I knew at once 
you had had nothing to do with it. It couldn’t 
have been you.” 

“Nothing to do with what?” asked Anne, spar¬ 
ring for time to regain her composure, although 
the startled look in her eyes told him all too well 
that she knew to what he referred. 


ONE PLAN UPSET 


181 


His statement had filled her with sudden panic. 
She had been comforting herself with the thought 
that her escape had been unobserved. When the 
hunchback had let the axe fall, striking Mason’s 
head—Anne wasn’t sure in her own mind whether 
he had done it purposely, or whether he had let 
it slip in surprise at her arrival, but she couldn’t 
think such a casual blow would be fatal—her first 
thought had been to get away from the place and 
to remove all evidence of her grandfather’s pres¬ 
ence there. She had never dreamed that the 
house was at the moment untenanted except for 
Mason. 

As she had run blindly down the road carrying 
the axe a growing sense of horror at what had hap¬ 
pened and at her own panic in running away had 
all but stultified her senses. The idea that had 
possessed her was to get away from Wadding ton 
Towers before Mrs. Cupps discovered her, to get 
home and to hide the axe. 

As she ran she had been vaguely conscious of 
having passed an automobile drawn up at the side 
of the road, but had given little heed to it. Wad- 



182 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


dy’s remark, implying that her flight had been 
observed, was susceptible of only one explanation. 
He must have been in that car. He must have 
seen her carrying the blood-stained axe. 

Her face blanched at the thought that all at 
once had come to her. Hitherto, conscious of her 
own innocence, she had given little heed to the 
part she had played. Now it dawned on her how 
damning the evidence must appear. 

“Will he—will Mr. Mason get well?” she 
faltered. 

“Sure,” said Waddy, cheerfully. “Don’t worry 
about him a minute. He’ll pull through. It was 
a nasty cut and there’s a bad concussion of the 
brain, but he’ll be all right in a day or two.” 

“I’m so glad,” said Anne, sincerely. 

She paused, waiting for his next question. 
Surely he would demand from her an explanation 
of what had happened in the bedroom. As she 
waited nervously she was wondering what her duty 
in the matter was. How far should she go in her 
effort to shield Mark Waddington from the conse¬ 
quences of his insane folly? Would it be better 


ONE PLAN UPSET 183 

for her to throw herself on Waddy Hurd’s mercy 
and tell him the whole miserable story? Perhaps 
she might be able to convince him that the old 
man was mentally irresponsible. Yet to her 
amazement her escort’s next question had no bear¬ 
ing whatever on the tragedy. 

“I wish you’d tell me,” he said almost plain¬ 
tively, “how you happened to come to my party. 
I tried my best the next day to find out who you 
were. I must have called up a dozen people trying 
to find out with whom you had come.” 

“Nobody brought me,” confessed Anne, blush¬ 
ing again. “I just came.” 

“I don’t quite understand.” 

“I came uninvited,” she said, rapidly, glad to 
get it over. “It was this way: I happened to be 
passing that supper-club place at the corner of 
your street and a group of a dozen or so people 
came out together. I heard one of them say they 
were going to your place and I couldn’t resist the 
temptation. I followed along and when we got to 
your apartments there were so many others there 
no one took any notice of me.” 


184 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“I noticed you,” said Waddy, pointedly. “I 
noticed you a lot.” 

“Not enough to try to talk to me, anyhow.” 
Anne’s courage was coming back. 

“But why,” demanded Waddy, explosively, 
“were you so eager to come to my place? I can’t 
understand that.” 

“We’re really quite old friends, Mr. Hurd,” the 
girl said, mischievously, her natural spirits reviving. 

“That can’t be. If I ever had met you before I 
know I would have remembered you.” 

“But we are old friends,” the girl persisted. 
“ Even if you never had met me before, I’ve known 
you, known all about you ever since I was a child. 
I grew up here in Ortonville, and you are the vil¬ 
lage’s local hero. They read everything that’s 
printed about you and talk about you constantly 
and keep wondering if you will ever come back. 
All my life I have been hearing about you. I al¬ 
ways have known that some day you would be the 
owner of Waddington Towers. Often and often, 
when I was a lonely little girl here, I used to wish 
that you’d come back.” 


ONE PLAN UPSET 185 

“And now,” said Waddy, softly, “your wish has 
come true. I have come home—home to stay.” 

“Then,” Anne went on, “when you went into 
the army, I saw your picture in the newspapers, 
and again when your father died, and when you 
were decorated, and when you were wounded, so 

you see I know you quite well. And once-” 

she hesitated. 

“Once what?” insisted Waddy, interestedly. 

“Once when you were in hospital in England, 
I was over there with our Red Cross, and I hap¬ 
pened to know one of the nurses at your hospital. 
I came into the room with her, just to get a peep 
at you.” 

“I remember,” cried Waddy, enthusiastically. 
“I knew there was something familiar in your ap¬ 
pearance. You wore a uniform of some sort. I 
couldn’t see much of your face. But I remember 
your eyes. I tried to talk to you and you ran out 
of the room.” 

Anne, blushing guiltily, nodded. 

“Why didn’t you introduce yourself?” 

“How could I?” she asked, bitterly. “I didn’t 




186 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


dare. Remember I had grown up in a Wadding- 
ton home, in its atmosphere of absurd hate. I’d 
only been a few months away from this dreadful 
place then. Its taint was still on me. I dared not 
tell you who I was.” 

“ You poor little kid,” said Waddy, compassion¬ 
ately. “ Eve only been here two days but I have 
heard enough already to imagine what a hell your 
life here must have been.” 

“It was—pretty bad,” said Anne, shivering. 
“Let’s don’t talk about it.” 

“Well, then, let’s talk about the party. What 
did you think when that telegram came? It 
frightened you, didn’t it?” 

“Indeed it did. I hadn’t been up here for 
nearly five years, but I knew Mr. Jessup. If he 
was stirred up enough to send a message like that 
I knew something terrible must be happening.” 

“Seems to be,” said Waddy, “and now I am 
here, what do you think I’d better do? It was 
because of you I came, you know.” 

As they talked they had unconsciously been 
retracing their steps and now had arrived within a 



ONE PLAN UPSET 187 

stone’s throw of the twin houses. Anne, happen¬ 
ing to look up, all at once became aware of their 
whereabouts. 

“Stop!” she cried. “You mustn’t come a step 
farther with me. We mustn’t be seen together 
by either of them.” 

“Why not?” 

“My grandfather—no, I won’t ever call him 
that again—Mark Waddington is bitter against 
you. He was raving all last night that he was 
going to kill you on sight.” 

“I’m not afraid of him, nor of both of them to¬ 
gether.” 

“I know, but there’s Amos. He is Mr. Wad- 
dington’s man of all work. He’s a crazy hunch¬ 
back, but he’s terribly strong—and dangerous, too. 
It was-” 

She stopped abruptly. 

“Don’t worry,” said Waddy. “You can tell 
me the whole thing. Nobody is going to be ar¬ 
rested. Mr. Jessup was for calling in the con¬ 
stable at once but I would not let him. I don’t 
see any use of dragging the Waddington family 




188 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


fights into the courts. It was Amos, of course, who 
smashed Mason.” 

“Yes,” said Anne. “When I got here they 
were sitting around the house making plans to 
search the big house for the hidden jewels just ex¬ 
actly as they were doing five years ago when I 
went away. I didn’t take them seriously, for 
they’re at it all the time. I went upstairs to 
change my dress, and from the window I saw Mrs. 
Cupps going toward the village. Then I saw 
Mark Waddington and Amos hurrying toward 
the Towers and they had an axe. I got dressed as 
soon as I could and followed them. I knew they 
were taking advantage of Mrs. Cupps’ absence. 

“Did you find them?” asked Waddy, excitedly. 

“The front door was standing wide open so I 
went right in. I could hear voices upstairs some¬ 
where—angry voices. I found the furniture all 
smashed up, and a man lying tied and gagged and 
blindfolded on the bed. Mr. Waddington and 
Amos were arguing over him and when they saw 
me, they were both so startled that they dropped 
everything and ran. Amos dropped the axe—I’m 



ONE PLAN UPSET 189 

trying to think he didn’t do it on purpose—and it 
hit Mr. Mason’s head. It was Mr. Mason, wasn’t 
it? I remember him at your house that night.” 

“Yes, it was. Now, look here,” said Waddy, 
decisively, “you go on into the house and I’ll join 
you there in a minute. I’m going to settle this 
thing right now\ It has lasted too long as it is. 
I’m going in next door and get Great-uncle Mat¬ 
thew. I am going to bring him into your place 
if I have to drag him in. We are all going to get 
together for once and have a pleasant little family 
chat.” 

“Don’t!” cried Anne. “It isn’t safe. They’ll 
kih you.” 

“I can take care of myself. See,” said Waddy, 
exhibiting the automatic he had brought with 
him. “I guess I can handle even Amos with that.” 

Fearfully Anne watched him as, abruptly leav¬ 
ing her, he turned and passed through the gate to 
the house adjoining the one that for years had been 
her home. Then, with heart beating fast, she en¬ 
tered the other gate. 

It was five minutes later that she heard the 



1 9 o THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

scuffling of feet approaching the house and hur¬ 
riedly threw open the door. There, at the door 
of his brother’s home for the first time in his life, 
stood Matthew Waddington, his bearded wrinkled 
old face grayer than ever from fright, while behind 
him, propelling him along by a forceful grip on his 
collar, was his great-nephew, in whose other hand 
was a businesslike looking automatic. 

“Here we are,” called Waddy, triumphantly, 
“all ready for that little family party.” 

“They’re not here,” cried Anne. “They’ve 
gone—both grandfather and Amos.” 

“You don’t think,” cried Waddy in alarm, 
“that they’ve gone back to the Towers?” 

“No,” said Anne, “they wouldn’t do that. 
They wouldn’t dare with all those people about. 
I think they have run away for fear they will be 
arrested.” 

As Waddy stood there gazing blankly at Anne, 
Great-uncle Matthew, the grip on his collar relax¬ 
ing, turned with a malignant leer. 

“And now, Mr. Smarty, what are you going to 
do about it?” he asked, derisively. 



CHAPTER XIII 


A DEAL IS PROPOSED 

W ADD Y in perplexity released his hold on 
the old man's collar and stared blankly 
at Anne. The question old Matthew 
Waddington had so maliciously put forth was a 
facer. Anne, returning his gaze, burst into sudden 
laughter. Keyed up as she had been by the strain 
of it all, her nerves taut from the tragedy of the 
day before, burdened with the morbid atmosphere 
of hate and suspicion, all at once the absurdity of 
the situation had struck her. 

Waddy, watching her at first with amazement, 
began presently to laugh, too. Even Great-uncle 
Matthew's set old face relaxed a little as he looked 
from one to the other, not knowing what to make 
of it. At first he had rather felt that perhaps they 
were laughing at him, but finding his presence there 
practically unheeded by either of the young people, 


192 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

he resisted his first impulse to escape, deciding to 
remain and try to discover what it was all about. 
Although no news had reached him yet of the 
attack on Mason he had gathered from Anne’s 
remark that his long-hated brother had been de¬ 
tected in some sort of mischief and he was eager 
to know just what it was. Anne, of course, he knew 
by sight, and although no one had informed him of 
Waddy’s identity he had shrewdly guessed who 
he might be in the glimpse he had caught of him 
as he passed the day before. The young man had 
the Waddington nose and mouth and strongly 
resembled the portrait of his great-grandfather 
made in his youth. Matthew knew, without being 
told, that his captor was the long-absent heir to 
Waddington Towers. 

“ Where on earth,” said Waddy at last, “do you 
suppose old Mark can have gone? He was here 
when you left the house a few minutes ago, wasn’t 
he?” 

“Yes,” said the girl, “ he and Amos both. What 
they did yesterday seemed to have frightened them 
into silence. They had been sitting around the 


A DEAL IS PROPOSED 


i93 

house ever since just glowering at each other and 
hardly saying a word. I know they were both 
scared.” 

“But where would they go? They can’t have 
had much of a start. Maybe we can find 
them.” 

“ I haven’t the slightest idea where to look,” said 
Anne. 

A chuckle from old Matthew drew the attention 
of both of them to him. He was beginning to 
enjoy himself, now that he found no attempts were 
being made to do him any further physical violence. 
In forty years—forty monotonous years of plotting 
and scheming—nothing so exciting had ever hap¬ 
pened to him before. It was a satisfaction, too, 
to find himself at last inside his brother’s house, 
the house to which his entrance had been for¬ 
bidden four decades ago. 

“I know where they’ll be,” he chuckled. 
“They’re in the hide-hole—the place we used to 
play in when we were little shavers.” 

“The hide-hole!” exclaimed Waddy. “Where 
is it?” 




i 9 4 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“I’m not telling/’ said Great-uncle Matthew, 
firmly. 

“Where is it?” the young man demanded, his 
voice this time more insistent. 

“Why should I tell you?” His old relative 
turned to him, plaintively rather than vindic¬ 
tively. “You—coming up here to turn me out of 
my home, to take my roof away from over my 
head.” 

“Who said I came up here for that?” said 
Waddy, explosively. “You’re welcome to your 
roof for ever as far as I am concerned.” 

“But the will-” quavered old Matthew. 

“The will be damned!” said Waddy. 

Compassion filled him as he looked at the old 
man’s face, lined as it was with the long years of 
hatred and fear, years that had left him a decrepit, 
wretched, suspicious old man. 

“Do you mean”—a gleam of hope seemed to 
soften the old man’s face—“do you mean that I 
can keep my home?” 

“ Of course he means it,” said Anne, reassuringly. 
“Mr. Hurd doesn’t want your property. Both 




A DEAL IS PROPOSED 


i95 

you and your brother are welcome to your homes 
for the rest of your lives.” 

“ Yes,” said Waddy, “help me find your brother, 
and I’ll make out quit-claim deeds at once for 
both of you.” 

The old man straightened back his shoulders and 
a new look came into his tired old eyes. 

“And you won’t be asking—you won’t be insist¬ 
ing that—what the will said?” 

“Make public confession and all that rot? Of 
course not. I would like to see you and your 
brother shake hands, though, and agree to quit 
fighting. You’re surely old enough now to know 
better.” 

Old Matthew stood pondering the young man’s 
suggestion, a far-away look in his eyes. 

“I’m willing,” he said at last. “I’ve had enough 

of it. I’ll do it if he will-” Suddenly he 

checked himself and the old crafty look returned to 
his eyes, and he shook his head. “No,” he said, 
firmly, “there’s the jewels—the Waddington 
jewels.” 

“ I’m going to find them,” said Waddy. “ That’s 




i 9 6 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

what I came up here for. Time enough to divide 
them when-” 

“ You’ve solved the cipher?” cried the old man, 
incredulously. 

“Not yet,” said Waddy. “I only heard about 
it yesterday, but I’m going to. The sensible thing 
is for us all to get together, you and your brother 
and Miss Sevigne and me, and talk the whole thing 
over. Maybe if we all put our heads together, we 
can get at the secret, and when we find them we 
can divide them up, share and share alike. Come, 
Uncle Matthew, what do you say?” 

At the friendly form of address the young man 
had used old Mr. Waddington gave a start. In 
the solitary life he had led kindly words for him 
had been few and far apart. Besides, there was 
about Waddy Hurd’s voice a sort of almost ir¬ 
resistible magnetism. People found themselves 
exerting themselves to please him and doing what¬ 
ever he asked them to do. The old man’s first 
impulse was to yield. He found himself really en¬ 
joying the companionship of his young relative. 
He wanted very much to do what Waddy had 



A DEAL IS PROPOSED 


197 

asked of him, but habits of a lifetime are not to be 
shaken off at will, and besides—it was not the 
Waddington way. 

“ Fll think it over,” he said in his quavering voice. 

If he had been expecting that there would be 
further urging he was disappointed. 

“Fine,” said Waddy. “That’s settled. We’ll 
meet here in this house at ten o’clock to-morrow 
morning when you have made up your mind. If 
Mark Waddington is not home by that time you 
can tell us where to find him—where this hide- 
hole is—and I’ll go and fetch him. Then we will 
all have a friendly chat together and settle things 
once and for all. Now, you go home, Uncle 
Matthew, and think it over. I’ll meet you here 
at ten to-morrow.” 

■ For a moment the old man’s face contorted it¬ 
self wrathfully as if he was about to sputter out an 
indignant protest at his curt dismissal, but, ap¬ 
parently thinking better of it, he turned toward 
the door. 

“Now,” said Waddy, turning to Anne, “get 
your bag and come along.” 





198 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Come along where?” she asked in astonish¬ 
ment. 

“Why, to Waddington Towers, of course. You 
can’t stay alone in this dismal place. Where else 
is there for you to go? ” 

“Look here, Mr. Hurd,” said the girl, an angry 
red coming into her cheeks, “because you can suc¬ 
cessfully bully an old man about you need not 
think the same tactics will work with me.” 

“But it’s perfectly all right. Mrs. Cupps is 
there, and there’s a houseful of servants, and 
there’s Mr. Jessup, too. It’s perfectly all right.” 

“Except,” said Anne, “that I have no desire 
whatever to accept your invitation.” 

“Oh, come now. Maybe I was rather abrupt 
the way I put it, but really you can’t stay here 
alone.” 

“Why not?” 

“It isn’t safe. There’s that villain Amos and 
old Mark roaming about. They may come back 
here at any minute.” 

“You have far more reason to fear them than 
I. They wouldn’t hurt me.” 


A DEAL IS PROPOSED 


199 

“ Wouldn’t they? Remember you are the only 
witness of what they did. Men who will go as far 
as they did yesterday will stop at nothing.” 

“Pm not afraid. I’ve known them both all my 
life. I know how to handle them. Besides, I 
have another reason for not going with you—a 
most excellent reason.” 

A roguish whim had seized her to have a little 
fun with Waddy. He was so cock-sure of himself, 
and she resented the masterful manner he had as¬ 
sumed in trying to direct her future movements. 

“ What’s your reason?” asked Waddy. 

“I have an important engagement—an engage¬ 
ment to meet a gentleman.” 

“Who is he?” he asked, incredulous but inter¬ 
ested. 

“A man sent up here to Ortonville,” said Anne, 
mischievously, “for the express purpose of shadow¬ 
ing James Waddington Hurd.” 

“What! To shadow me?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Good Lord! What’s the big idea?” 

“All I know is that there is a certain young man 



200 THE WADDXNGTON CIPHER 


here in Ortonville, sent up from New York, whose 
instructions are to watch you closely and make a 
daily report on everything you do. I was on my 
way to see him when I met you. ” 

“Who is he, a detective? Who sent him?” 
demanded Waddy. 

This statement of Anne’s had left him utterly 
dumbfounded. 

* 

“ The man’s not a detective exactly,” said Anne. 

“You’ve already met him? You know him?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Anne, enjoying Waddy’s con¬ 
sternation. “In fact, it was on his account that 
I came up here. You see”—she added this as an 
afterthought—“the young man—it’s really rather 
complicated—the young man sent up here to 
watch you is in love with me, or at least thinks 
he is.” 

“Damn!” said Waddy. 

“Why, Mr. Hurd,” she said in mock seriousness, 
“you mustn’t use such language.” 

“Look here,” said Waddy, disregarding her pro¬ 
test, “tell me about him. Tell me everything.” 

“Why should I?” she countered. 




A DEAL IS PROPOSED 


201 


“Why—why—” fumbled Waddy, floundering 
for a logical reason, “why, because I love you, 
Anne Sevigne.” 

“Damn,” said Anne. “That does complicate 
matters, doesn’t it?” 

“I’ve been mad about you ever since the first 
minute I saw you,” Waddy went on, desperately, 
following up a declaration that was as much of a 
surprise to him as it had been to Anne. “You 
haven’t been out of my thoughts for a minute. 
It was on your account that I came up here.” 

“Why, Mr. Hurd,” exclaimed Anne in a banter¬ 
ing tone, “you know that isn’t so. You told your 
uncle Matthew your real reason. It was to find 
the Wadding ton jewels.” 

For answer Waddy strode quickly across the 
room and seized her by the shoulders, vexed enough 
with her raillery to shake her soundly, yet tempted 
strongly to crush her in his arms and kiss her. But 
he did neither. 

Looking down into those eyes upturned to his 
he saw that they were dark with anger, and he 
could feel the slim little figure in his grasp stiffen 



202 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


resentfully, although when Anne spoke there was 
no trace of fear in her tones. 

“ Apparently 3^ou are right, Mr. Hurd,” she said. 
“It does not seem quite safe for me to stay here 
alone, at least not with you.” 

With an effort he released her, and stood looking 
down at her. 

“Won’t you take me into your confidence and 
tell me everything?” he asked, gently. 

“Perhaps—to-morrow,” she answered, pointing 
toward the door. 

Against his will, under the spell of her unspoken 
command, he turned abruptly and left her. 

Yet, as he went away, even though he had been 
dismissed, his heart was light. He was to see 
her—to-morrow. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A JOURNEY IS PLANNED 

T HE home of Elwood Parsons was a Park 
Avenue apartment. There were sixteen 
rooms for the two of them, himself and 
Frieda, not counting the servants’ quarters. Oc¬ 
casionally the daughter would have a few guests, 
and two or three times during the season they 
might give a small dinner party, but most of the 
time even during the winter months neither Par¬ 
sons nor his daughter used the big apartment ex¬ 
cept as a place to sleep and breakfast. Frieda, 
busy with her social affairs, seldom was home for 
either luncheon or for dinner unless they had 
guests, and the lawyer, ever busy building fences, 
was an inveterate attendant at public dinners. 
When no function of any sort was scheduled he 
made a point of dining at one of the several good 
clubs he had contrived to get into. 


203 


204 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

But always, ever since Frieda had finished her 
school-days, they had breakfasted together, and 
this breakfast with his daughter was the brightest 
spot in the day. Clever schemer though he was, 
and utterly unscrupulous in advancing his own 
interests, Parsons really loved his daughter, and 
always his most ambitious plans concerning the 
future revolved about her. 

On this particular morning as they appeared at 
the breakfast table both of them looked haggard 
and worried. And each of them, although they 
anxiously observed the other’s expression, for some 
reason seemed loath to talk. 

Frieda had undergone a wearing night of self- 
examination. Utterly at a loss to account for 
Waddy Hurd’s attitude toward her, and being 
desperately in love with him, she had been much 
more hurt by his rude departure than even her 
father had suspected. 

Hitherto, whenever she had encountered him, 
he always had seemed delighted and had been eager 
for her society. She had understood, too, from 
her father’s manner rather than from anything he 


A JOURNEY IS PLANNED 205 

had ever said, that he would look upon Waddy as 
an acceptable son-in-law, and always she had felt 
hitherto that sooner or later Waddy would ask her 
to be his wife. 

But now she sensed something had intervened, 
something that she could not comprehend. 

In the seclusion of her room she had taken from 
a locked drawer the souvenirs of her two years’ 
acquaintance with him. Her treasures were after 
all not so many—a picture of Waddy in his uni¬ 
form as a British officer, a snapshot or two of them 
together taken in the mountains, some dance cards 
on which his name appeared very frequently, and 
a few letters, friendly, informal notes that had ac¬ 
companied little gifts or were about dates they had 
had, notes that began, “Dear Frieda,” and ended 
“Cordially, Waddy,” notes that were surely none 
of them love-letters, yet in which, perhaps re¬ 
flecting her own feelings, she had sensed a tender 
regard. 

All night long she had lain awake trying to dis¬ 
cover what was the matter. Reviewing her own 
conduct, she was conscious of nothing that she had 


206 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


done that might have served to alienate him. It 
must be some external cause, and the only cause 
that seemed to her sufficient was the thought that 
comes to every girl in similar plight— 

Another woman! 

Her father, too, had had but little sleep the night 
before. He had had sent up from his office the 
evening before all the cases containing documents 
bearing on the Hurd estate and had been up until 
nearly four in the morning, going thoroughly over 
them one by one, trying to discover something 
among them that might account for the young 
man’s sudden and inexplicable interest in Orton- 
ville. 

He did find one thing among them that hitherto 
had escaped his notice—a time-yellowed news¬ 
paper clipping that told of the hidden Waddington 
jewels. Parsons read through the clipping twice 
and then thoughtfully put it in his bill case. It 
was barely possible, he felt, that some gossip about 
the hidden treasure might have reached Waddy’s 
ears. An impetuous desire for adventure might 
have sent the young man posting to Ortonville to 



A JOURNEY IS PLANNED 207 

take up the quest, but to Parsons’s analytical mind 
the motive did not seem quite sufficient. 

As in his daughter’s mind, there arose in his the 
fear that there might be a woman involved. He 
was appalled to think that his plans to have Hurd 
marry his daughter had miscarried, yet the more 
he pondered over the matter, the more determined 
he became to let nothing intervene to thwart his 
ambitions. He must not—he dare not—slip up 
in his plans now. 

Over his coffee cup he shot a keen glance at his 
daughter. 

“What’s up between you andWaddy?” he asked. 

“Dad,” the girl’s eyes, in spite of her efforts, 
filled with tears, “I don’t know.” 

“What’s the matter? Have you quarrelled?” 

“Nothing’s happened,” she answered, desper¬ 
ately. “I can’t understand it. Oh, Dad, you’re 
so clever. Help me get him back, won’t you?” 

It was a revelation to Parsons to see how deeply 
his daughter cared. He was silent for a moment 
and then asked quietly, “Has he ever said any¬ 
thing?” 



2o8 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“ Proposed, you mean? No, but he would have. 
I’m sure he would have, if-” 

“If what?” 

“If something hadn’t happened. I don’t know 
what it is. I’m afraid it’s another girl.” 

“But why,” asked her father, “would he go off 
to Ortonville?” 

“I can’t imagine. What do you think, Dad?” 

For answer Parsons drew from his pocket the 
newspaper clipping he had discovered the night 
before and passed it to his daughter to read. As 
she scanned it her face lightened. 

“I wonder?” she cried. “It is just the sort of 
thing that would appeal to him—a search for buried 
treasure. It sounds awfully exciting. Oh, Dad, 
do you think that is why he was so anxious to get 
away?” 

As they were discussing the clipping and its 
possible relations to Hurd’s recent actions, the 
butler entered with the morning mail. | Mr. Par¬ 
sons, catching the Ortonville postmark on one 
of the letters, tore it hastily open, trusting that 
the report from Blaine that he had been so anx- 



A JOURNEY IS PLANNED 209 

iously awaiting might explain everything satis¬ 
factorily. A puzzled frown gathered in his face 
as he read Blaine’s graphic description of the 
mysterious and exciting events he had witnessed 
at Waddington Towers. The frown deepened as 
he came to the last few lines. 

“What’s the matter, Dad?” Frieda asked as he 
sat silent, his face growing blacker and blacker. 

“You know a lot of the art crowd, don’t 
you?” he asked, suddenly, looking up from the 
letter. 

“Not a lot of them. I know some of the artists 
—mostly the younger ones.” 

“Know any women artists?” 

“Yes,” she answered, wonderingly, “quite a few 
of them. Why?” 

“Ever know or hear of a girl named—” he 
paused to refer to the letter before him—“Sevigne. 
Anne Sevigne?” 

“No,” said the puzzled girl. “Not that I know 
of.” 

“Or Anne Waddington? Sometimes she uses 
that name.” 




2io THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“No, I never heard of any one by that name, 
either. Why,” she hesitated and a startled look 
came into her eyes, “is she any relation to Waddy? 
You know his name is James Waddington Hurd. 
Who is she?” 

“All I know about her is her name.” 

“But why are you asking about her? What has 
she done?” 

“Waddy Hurd is up in Ortonville with her— 
that’s why.” 

“In Ortonville—with her /” 

“That’s where his people came from. He owns 
an old house up there, the house where the jewels 
are supposed to be hidden—Waddington Towers. 
He didn’t know anything about it, that he owned 
the house, or even where the place was, until I 
told him yesterday. What he is doing in Orton¬ 
ville or who this girl is, I can’t imagine, but I am 
going to find out.” 

“How—what are you going to do?” 

“I have a young man up there keeping tabs on 
him, but I don’t think he’s big enough for the job. 
I’m going up there myself.” 




A JOURNEY IS PLANNED 211 

“When are you going?” asked his daughter 
quickly. 

Parsons pondered a minute, mentally reviewing 
his engagements. 

“To-morrow morning, the first thing. I’ll mo¬ 
tor up.” 

“But what will Waddy think of your going up 
there uninvited?” 

“He won’t know it,” chuckled Parsons. “He 
will think I came up there accidentally. I’ll tell 
him I happened to be motoring to Albany on some 
legal business and saw the name Ortonville and just 
dropped by to see what he thought of the place. 

1 

Or, better still, I’ll take up some papers that re¬ 
quire his signature and make that my excuse for 
stopping.” 

“Dad,” said Frieda, animatedly, the colour re¬ 
turning to her cheeks, “I’m going with you,” 
she announced decisively. 

Parsons studied her thoughtfully a moment be¬ 
fore he answered her. He was not at all sure that 
Waddy would be glad to see him in Ortonville. 
The fact that the young man had not invited his 


212 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

confidence indicated a desire to be let alone. If 
he and this girl were up there together Hurd un¬ 
doubtedly would resent his coming up. But if he 
had Frieda with him and they should arrive about 
lunch-time, common hospitality would require that 
Waddy bid them stay to luncheon. He might 
even suggest their passing the night in Waddington 
Towers. That would be even better still. Frieda 
could hold her own against any girl. Surely sight 
of her would bring James Waddington Hurd back 
to his senses again, then—for just an instant a 
tremor of fear shook him—then everything would 
turn out all right. 

“By all means, my dear,” he said to his daughter, 
cordially, “come along with me. I think we’ll 
have an interesting trip.” 


CHAPTER XV 


AN EXCITING EVENING 

S O YOU see,” said Waddy, almost combat¬ 
ively, “I was right. That phrase that 
Mason keeps mumbling bears out every¬ 
thing that Miss Sevigne said. I knew from the 
first that she could have had nothing to do with it.” 

Even though he knew that in old Mr. Jessup he 
had an entirely unsympathetic listener, he just 
had to keep on talking about Anne. Ever since 
the spirited passage he had had with her in the 
afternoon, she had filled his thoughts to the ex¬ 
clusion of practically everything else. Waddy was 
in love, in love for the first time in his life, and 
everything took on a new aspect. Even the 
gloomy old house, the mysterious happenings about 
it, the feud of his great-uncles, the assault on his 
friend Mason, and the puzzle of the missing 
jewels were as nothing to him now. He felt that 


213 


214 


THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


he was just marking time until he should see Anne 
again. Meanwhile, he was talking about her to old 
Jessup. 

“ Don’t forget,” the old agent protested, stub¬ 
bornly, “that there’s strong evidence against her. 
It was she that was seen running away from the 
house with the axe.” 

“But I tell you that it was the hunchback— 
Amos they call him—that used it. She tried to 
stop him.” 

“Humph,” sniffed the old man. “When you 
get as old as I am you’ll learn that it’s a darned 
sight safer to hear both sides of a story first. 
What does he say?” 

“I told you,” Waddy retorted almost angrily, 
“that he has run away, he and old Mark.” 

It was in the evening after supper. They were 
sitting together in the semi-darkness of the broad 
front porch of Waddington Towers, the younger 
man with his cigarette and Jessup with his pipe. 
One of the maids had been installed as nurse at 
Mason’s bedside and Mrs. Cupps and the other ser¬ 
vants were somewhere in the house busy with 


AN EXCITING EVENING 


215 

their duties. It was the very first opportunity 
that Waddy had had for discussing the day’s de¬ 
velopments with his agent, for when he had re¬ 
turned after leaving Anne he had found the whole 
house in excitement over Mason’s returning con¬ 
sciousness. 

Mason, after having lain in a stupor for many 
hours, apparently was trying to tell them some¬ 
thing. When he had first begun to toss restlessly 
and mutter incoherently Mrs. Cupps had hastened 
to summon Mr. Jessup from the porch below. As 
Waddy came in he had found them both at the 
patient’s bedside bending anxiously over him en¬ 
deavouring to make out what he was trying to say. 
It was Waddy, guided by what he had already 
learned of the tragic occurrences of the afternoon, 
who finally managed to discover what it was that 
Mason was trying to communicate. 

“One of them is a hunchback .” 

Over and over Mason kept mumbling the same 
words, his brain, as it recovered from the shock, 
picking up thought that had been in his mind be¬ 
fore the heavy axe struck him, jarring him into un- 


216 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


consciousness. For an hour they had stood over 
him, hoping to hear something else, occasionally 
trying to lead him on with questions but in¬ 
variably getting the same monotonous mumble. 

After a while the mutterings had ceased, and 
Mason apparently fell back into what seemed a 
more natural slumber. Leaving him in the maid’s 
care, Waddy and Jessup had descended to the 
dining room for their evening meal, but with both 
the butler and Mrs. Cupps hovering about to 
see that their wants were supplied there had 
been no chance for intimate conversation until 
they had adjourned to the porch, where Waddy 
had given a somewhat deleted account of his ad¬ 
ventures. 

“I still think,” persisted Jessup, “that the con¬ 
stable ought to be notified.” 

“Nothing doing,” Waddy repeated more firmly 
than ever. “If Mason, when he recovers, wants 
to start something I suppose it can’t be helped, 
but I doubt if he will. I certainly shan’t. There’s 
been too much of the Waddington linen exposed to 
the public as it is.” 


AN EXCITING EVENING 


217 

“Well, what are you going to do then?” asked 
Mr. Jessup, curiously. 

“Just exactly what I started out to do this 
afternoon—get those two silly old chaps together 
and have it out with them. Uncle Matthew has 
come around already.” 

“Humph, if he’s done it, the other one won’t. 
It’s easy enough to get one of the Waddingtons to 
do anything. Getting the other one’s different. 
He’s sure to head the other way. That’s what the 
pair of them have been doing for forty years and 
longer.” 

“You’ll see,” said Waddy, confidently. “I’ll 
get them together, but there’s another thing that’s 
bothering me, something that Miss Sevigne told 
me.” 

“What’s that?” 

Mr. Jessup listened in interested silence as 
Waddy repeated the girl’s statement about a man 
having been sent up from New York just to 
shadow him. 

“What do you make of it?” he questioned, anx¬ 
iously. “What motive could any one possibly 



218 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


have for wanting to have me shadowed? I can’t 
understand it at all.” 

“ Maybe she was just stringing you.” 

“No,” insisted Waddy, perplexedly, “from 
her manner I am convinced that it was true 
and that she knew what she was talking 
about.” 

Jessup puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, consider¬ 
ing this new development, and then asked sharply: 
“How did she come to mention it? What had you 
been talking about?” 

As Waddy’s cheeks crimsoned at the question, 
he was glad that the darkness hid his face from 
his questioner. That was the part of his conver¬ 
sation with Anne that he had omitted. How 
could he explain that at the moment he had all but 
had the girl in his arms, that he had been telling 
her that he loved her? 

“We were just talking things over,” he an¬ 
swered, lamely. 

“Didn’t tell you who was shadowing you—the 
man’s name or anything?” 

“No, she didn’t.” 


AN EXCITING EVENING 


219 

“There is a strange young man in the village/’ 
said Jessup, meditatively, “ stopping at Mrs. 
Tucker’s, name of Blaine. Got in yesterday. 
Might be he. Does the name mean anything to 
you?” 

“Not a thing.” 

As Waddy answered, he shivered involuntarily. 
The thought that he was being closely watched, 
his every movement spied on, in behalf of some 
mysterious person or persons of whose identity he 
had no inkling, gave him a creepy feeling. Brave 
though he ordinarily was, here in the darkness of 
the porch, its blackness softened only by the feeble 
beams of lamplight that came through the cur¬ 
tained windows, with the mysterious old home¬ 
stead as a background, a house from which there 
seemed to be issuing all sorts of queer creakings and 
moanings and whisperings—noises he told himself 
that were doubtless caused by the servants moving 
about within—Waddy found himself conscious of 
a sensation of uncanniness and realized that his 
nerves were becoming decidedly jumpy. Once or 
twice he even thought he heard a slight rustling 



220 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


in the bushes near by, but as it passed unnoticed 
by 'Jessup, he hesitated to speak of it, feeling 
that perhaps after all it was only his imagina¬ 
tion, or else was caused by some prowling night 
animal. 

“It’s the motive that bothers me. Why should 
any one have me shadowed? What would they 
expect to find out?” 

“You haven’t been mixed up with a woman?” 
ventured Jessup. 

“Good Lord, no,” said Waddy with a surprised 
laugh. 

“It’s nothing to laugh at,” said the old man. 
“There’s no telling to what lengths a jealous 
woman will go.” 

“Nothing like that in my life.” 

“Then,” announced Mr. Jessup, decisively, 
“it’s the jewels. There’s been a lot of talk here¬ 
abouts from time to time about that hidden treas¬ 
ure. It must be somebody that knew about its 
existence. They have been keeping watch on you, 
figuring that sooner or later you’d come up here to 
get those jewels your grandfather left. It wouldn’t 



AN EXCITING EVENING 221 

surprise me if one or the other of those two old 
varmints hadn’t been having you watched right 
along.” 

“ You mean my two great-uncles?” 

“ Certainly. Who else? I wouldn’t put any¬ 
thing past either of them.” 

“It sounds pretty far-fetched.” 

“I don’t know that it is. Old Mark’s grand¬ 
daughter has been in New York, hasn’t she? She 
bobs up here the minute you get here. How do 
you know she wasn’t watching you in New York? 
Did you ever see her down there?” 

“Only once,” said Waddy, absently. 

He was busy thinking. Of course the old man’s 
theory was absurd, and yet Anne Sevigne had come 
to his party without an invitation, had sought his 
acquaintance in a way. Could it be that?—but no! 
He dismissed the thought as utterly unworthy of 
his consideration. She was honest and straight¬ 
forward, and—he loved her. 

“What other-?” began Mr. Jessup, but he 

stopped short with a nervous jump and stared out 
into the bushes. “What was that?” 





222 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


For a moment they both sat with straining ears, 
listening. 

“I thought I heard somebody out there in the 
bushes,” whispered Jessup. 

“I did, too,” whispered Waddy, suddenly calling 
out: “Who’s there?” 

As he spoke he sprang up from his chair and 
jumped down off the porch. As he did so there 
came the unmistakable sound of someone running 
away, although in the darkness it was hardly 
possible to tell from which direction the sound 
came, or to glimpse the intruder—who apparently 
had been listening to their conversation. 

As Waddy stood there listening, debating 
whether or not it was worth while to start in pur¬ 
suit, there came from the house behind him a 
prolonged shriek of terror, a woman’s shriek. 

“My God!” cried Waddy. “What’s happened 
now?” Without hesitation he faced about and 
ran for the door, closely followed by Jessup. As 
they entered, the silence that had followed that 
one shriek was broken again, this time by a suc¬ 
cession of screams, less loud, less tense, sounds such 


AN EXCITING EVENING 


223 

as might come from a woman frightened into 
hysteria. 

Guided by the sound they dashed up the stairs 
to the upper hall. Lying on the floor there, shriek¬ 
ing and moaning, they found the maid they had 
left stationed by Mason’s bed. Bending over her 
stood the butler and cook, their faces almost as 
white as hers, as she kept shrieking and pointing 
wildly at a door at the end of the hall. 

“I saw it. I saw it as plain as day,” she kept 
repeating. 

“Saw what?” demanded Waddy. 

“A ghost,” she whimpered, her breath coming in 
quick, painful jerks, “a ghost walking toward me.” 

She watched with terrified eyes as Mr. Jessup, 
walking to the door she had indicated, flung it 
open and looked all about inside. 

“There’s nothing there,” he said. 

“I tell you I saw it,” the girl screamed. “A 
ghost, walking right toward me.” 

“Be quiet,” commanded Waddy. “Nothing’s 
going to hurt you now. Tell us what the ghost 
looked like. What did you see?” 


224 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“ I saw it/’ the girl moaned, “ the figure of a wom¬ 
an, all in gray, coming right toward me, and she 
was carrying in one of her hands—and the hand 
had no flesh on it, just bones like a skeleton—she 
was carrying a big pearl necklace and all the while 
the ghost kept gibbering at me.” 

“And then what happened?” 

“I was carrying a candle and I could see the 
ghost as plain as day and the pearls all glistening in 
the candlelight, and I was so scared I dropped the 
candle, and the ghost vanished.” 

“You say you saw her plain as day,” said Mr, 
Jessup. “What was her face like?” 

“I didn’t see any face,” the girl moaned, “just 
a tall gray figure and the pearls. I don’t think 
she had any face.” 

“What were you doing in the hall?” asked 
Waddy. 

“I was on my way downstairs to call Mrs. * 
Cupps. Mr. Mason was getting restless again and 
had started muttering.” 

“Where is Mrs. Cupps?” asked Mr. Jessup. 

“Here I am,” the old housekeeper answered, 



AN EXCITING EVENING 


225 

appearing at the head of the stairs, candle in hand. 
“ What’s happened? Who was that I heard 
scream?” 

She caught sight of the maid still lying on the 
floor. “I saw a ghost,” the maid began again. 

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” The old woman’s scorn 
was withering. “Having hysterics, is it? Get up 
this instant and go to your room. You ought to 

1 

be ashamed of yourself, making all this commotion. 
Get up at once.” 

Cowering before the old woman’s wrath the girl 
scrambled to her feet and, supported by the butler 
and cook, vanished in the direction of the ser¬ 
vants’ quarters. 

“She thought she saw a ghost,” said Waddy, 
turning to the old housekeeper. “Mrs. Cupps, is 
there a ghost in Waddington Towers?” 

“A ghost!” the old woman sniffed indignantly. 
“If there was a ghost here, I guess it would be me 
seeing it and not her, me living here all these 
years alone.” 

She burst into a shrill cackle as if highly amused 
at the very idea of it, but right in the middle of her 


226 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


laughter she paused to look furtively about and to 
listen as if expecting to hear something. 

“A ghost,’’ she repeated, indignantly. “There 
aren’t any ghosts. It’s just a silly young girl’s 
nerves, that’s all. It’s too bad that you should be 
bothered by them.” 

As she departed Waddy and Mr. Jessup looked 
at each other. 

“Of course she’s right,” said Waddy, “it was 
just nerves.” 

“Maybe,” said Mr. Jessup, “but it’s darned 
funny that the ghost should be carrying a string of 
pearls—the missing Wadding ton pearls.” 

Waddy looked blankly at him, but before he 
could make reply a feeble call from the bedroom 
cut off all discussion. Hurrying in to where they 
had left Mason, they found him, the light of reason 
once more in his eyes, struggling to sit up in bed. 

“Waddy,” he called out, excitedly, all uncon¬ 
scious of the lapse of time since his injury, “there 
are two of them, an old man and a hunchback. 
Hurry, Waddy, get them before they get away.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 

W ITH the air of a conqueror Waddy Hurd 
strode forth from the gate of Wadding- 
ton Towers to keep his appointment with 
Anne. A sound night’s sleep had restored him to 
his customary buoyant spirits and had given him a 
much more optimistic view of the strange happen¬ 
ings about the old homestead. In the light of day 
the maid’s story of having seen a ghost, a ghost 
carrying the missing Waddington pearls, took on a 
far different aspect. Waddy, as he hurried along, 
blithely assured himself that there were no such 
things as ghosts, being inclined to account for the 
girl’s hysteria by a hallucination inspired by living 
in the mysterious old house and by the gossip about 
Mason’s mishap. He dismissed the whole thing as 
too silly even to think about. 

Nor was there anything about Mason’s condi- 

23J 


228 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


tion now to cause him worry. His injured friend 
seemed much improved and well on the way to re¬ 
covery. He had been able that morning to give 
Waddy and Mr. Jessup a connected story of what 
had happened so far as he had been able to de¬ 
termine. To Waddy’s delight he had shown no 
rancour toward his assailants and had let pass un¬ 
noticed a hint by Mr. Jessup that the men should 
be vigorously prosecuted. What was more, his 
story had in every way tallied with the account 
that Anne Sevigne had given, convincing even Mr. 
Jessup that she was in no way involved, but had 
in reality attempted to prevent any further evil 
being done. 

All that remained now, Waddy was reassuring 
himself, was to bring about a reconciliation be¬ 
tween his two silly old great-uncles and, despite 
Mr. Jessup’s pessimism, he did not regard this as 
much of a task. 

“ When two people have been fighting each other 
for forty years,” he said to himself, a it stands to 
reason that they both are good and sick of it. If 
anybody can bring them together I can.” 


BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 229 

As his steps carried him on toward old Mark’s 
home his imagination was busy painting what 
would happen afterward. The quarrelling for 
ever stopped, he and Anne and all of them would 
have a conference together. Very likely when 
each had told what each knew about the missing 
jewels, among them they would be able quickly 
to discover the hiding-place. He would have 
Jessup draw up quit-claim deeds for the homes of 
Matthew and Mark and they would divide up the 
Waddington jewellery, and then—Anne! 

His heart fairly sang when he thought of her! 
She was so wonderful, so little and slim, so dark and 
beautiful, so sweet and lovely, and yet so clear¬ 
headed and self-reliant, despite her femininity. 
Seeking for standards with which to compare her, 
his mind naturally reverted to Frieda Parsons, the 
only other American girl of his own class with 
whom he had been thrown in intimate contact. 
Frieda was lovely, too, he admitted, but so differ¬ 
ent. Hers was a cold and shallow nature, while 
in the heart of Anne JSevigne, he instinctively 
felt, were warm wells of love, wells still un- 



230 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

fathomed. How fortunate he was, he told him¬ 
self, that Anne had come into his life before his 
friendship with Frieda had ripened into a more 
lasting relation—as he realized now it might soon 
have. 

Anne! 

His heart quaked a little as he recalled the pre¬ 
cipitancy with which he had declared his affection 
and the fire of anger that had flashed from her 
eyes when he had sought to take her in his arms. 
He was fearful that he might have inspired in her 
a feeling of revulsion by his cave-man tactics. He 
must set a ward on his words and actions, he cau¬ 
tioned himself, lest she become frightened of him* 
But whatever happened, he was determined that 
nothing should come between them. He was going 
to have Anne Sevigne for his wife. He refused to 
place any credence in Anne’s statement that the 
man sent up to spy on him—the shadow, whoever 
he might be—had any place in Anne’s affections. 
After all, Anne had said the man was in love with 
her. She had not said that she was in love. That 
would be vastly different. How could any man 



BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 


231 

help loving Anne Sevigne! Probably there were 
many men who would like to woo her. Valiantly 
Waddy pictured himself battling with them all and 
carrying her away in triumph. 

As he reached his great-uncle Mark’s gloomy old 
house and swung in at the gate, he noticed that the 
front door was standing wide open. A premoni¬ 
tion that Uncle Mark and old Amos might have 
returned came to him, and he approached cau¬ 
tiously, feeling first in his hip-pocket. A glimpse 
into the interior revealed nothing, so he knocked 
boldly. He waited a moment, but no answer came. 

Once more he peered within, but could see no 
one about, so he knocked again, this time much 
more loudly. Still there was only silence. Not 
knowing what to make of it, and feeling sure that 
Anne must be somewhere about, he entered boldly 
and shouted her name, thinking it just possible 
that she might be asleep on the upper floor. 

Three times he called her name without a re¬ 
sponse. 

Then sudden fear swept over him. Had any¬ 
thing happened? 


232 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

On impulse he turned and ran into his great- 
uncle Matthew’s house next door, thinking it just 
possible that she might have gone there. The old 
man must have been peeping out the window, for 
as Waddy approached the door was flung suddenly 
open. 

“ Where’s Anne—Anne Sevigne?” Hurd cried, 
excitedly. “ She’s not at home. There’s nobody 
in the house.” 

“I haven’t seen her this morning,” said old 
Matthew. “ Haven’t seen her since last night— 
pretty late last night.” 

“ Where did you see her then? What was she 
doing?” 

“ Right after you left her yesterday afternoon,” 
the old man answered, apparently taking a ma¬ 
licious satisfaction in his narrative, “she hurried 
off to the village. She was gone nearly two hours, 
I guess, and when she came back there was a 
young fellow with her, a stranger in town, a man 
that is staying at Mrs. Tucker’s.” 

“Did he go into the house with her?” asked 
Waddy, jealously. 



BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 


233 

“He sure did/’ old Matthew affirmed. “I 
naturally was interested in what was going on, so 
as soon as it got dark I slipped over in the yard 
and watched. He stayed there a good hour and a 
half, talking to her, and I was right there in the 
yard when he came out.” 

“Did she come out with him? Did they go 
away together?” 

“No, she stood in the doorway and called out, 
‘Good-night, David, see you again in the morning/ 
and he went away alone—went up on the hill to 
the Towers.” 

A flush of anger crept into Waddy’s face as he 
recalled the rustling he and Jessup had heard 
in the bushes, and the sound they had heard of 
someone running away. Undoubtedly this man, 
whoever he was, had gone directly from visiting 
Anne to spy on him at Waddington Towers. 
But what was the connection between Anne and 
this spy? How was it to be explained? There 
was only one logical course that he could think 
of. 

“Where is Mrs. Tucker’s?” he asked. “I’m 



234 THE waddington cipher 

going over there and question this chap. Maybe 
he knows where Anne is.” 

“She said she would see him in the morning,” 
old Matthew responded, as he gave the directions 
asked. Waddy, hardly waiting to hear them, set 
out at once, his air of confidence and optimism 
completely gone, swept away before a burst of the 
fiercest rage. He was determined to find this 
spy, and have it out with him. 

Meanwhile, David Blaine, all unconscious of 
Waddy’s intent, sat on Mrs. Tucker’s porch, busy 
writing another chapter of his report to Mr. 
Parsons. It was not a very satisfactory report, 
most of it being made up of an account of his ef¬ 
forts to get Anne Sevigne to talk about the Wad¬ 
dington family affairs. As a shadow fell across the 
paper on which he was writing he looked up, and 
hastily sprang to his feet, as he saw before him 
Waddy Hurd’s irate face. 

“Why, Mr. Hurd!” he exclaimed, amazement 
mingled with dolefulness. Hurd’s presence there 
to him augured only one thing, that Hurd had dis¬ 
covered his mission in Ortonville, and he was won- 


BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 


235 

dering how he could explain things to his employer. 

“ Where’s Anne, where’s Miss Sevigne?” de¬ 
manded his caller, threateningly. “Tell me where 
she is. Tell me this instant, you damned spy, or 
I’ll break your neck.” 

“She’s at home at her grandfather’s, isn’t she?” 

His surprise at Waddy’s question was so un¬ 
feigned that Waddy realized, even in his wrath, 
that Blaine was ignorant of Anne’s whereabouts. 

“No,” he said, “she’s not there. There’s no¬ 
body in the house.” 

“My God!” cried Blaine. “What can have 
happened to her!” 

The alarm expressed in his voice was genuine, and 
for a moment the two of them stood there glower¬ 
ing at each other like two angry schoolboys, then, 
Blaine, remembering the report on which he had 
been at work, made the error of trying to seize and 
conceal it. The same instant, Waddy, all at once, 
sensing the purport of the paper, shot out his 
powerful right hand and wrenched the paper from 
Blaine’s grasp. Amazed, he scanned what Blaine 
had set down. 


236 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“What in blazes are you shadowing me for?” he 
demanded. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Blaine, quite 
candidly. 

“Who hired you?” 

“ My employer sent me here. That’s all I know 
about it.” 

“Who is your employer?” 

“I can’t tell that.” 

Waddy studied Blaine appraisingly, correctly 
estimating him for what he was, an underling with¬ 
out initiative or any great amount of brains. He 
was hardly worth quarrelling with, he decided. 
After all, he was merely carrying out orders, some¬ 
one else’s orders. There would be plenty of time 
later to discover who was at the back of this 
mysterious shadowing. The important thing now 
was to discover what had become of Anne Sevigne. 

“I’ll settle with you and your employer later,” 
he said. “If you want to find out just what I do 
every day come to me and I’ll tell you. I have 
nothing to conceal. The thing I have got to do 
now is to find Miss Sevigne.” 


BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 


2 37 

“You don’t think that anything can have hap¬ 
pened to her?” asked Blaine, anxiously. 

“ God only knows,” said Waddy. He was think¬ 
ing now of her half-crazed grandfather and his 
hunchback accomplice, remembering that Anne 
had been the only witness of their villainy. It was 
not beyond reason that they might have spirited 
her away for fear that she might testify against 
them. They might even, in their terrified con¬ 
dition, go so far as to kill her. Her peril, so long 
as her whereabouts were unknown, seemed very 
real to him. “Unquestionably she is in grave 
danger,” he added, “possibly in danger of her life. 
I must find her.” 

“I’m going with you,” said Blaine, tensely. “I 
want to help you find her.” 

Together they hurried back to Mark Wadding- 
ton’s house, the last place that either of them had 
seen her. As they approached they saw old 
Matthew Waddington standing out in the road 
eagerly awaiting their arrival. 

“They’ve carried her off,” he cried. 

“Who?” asked Blaine in amazement. 



238 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Tell me at once. How do you know? What 
have you found out?” the questions came from 
Waddy in a regular volley. 

“While I was waiting for you,” said the old 
man, “I went in and went all through the house— 
his house.” He indicated his brother’s home with 
a pointing finger. “The bed’s up there that she 
slept in, and the sheet’s all torn in strips as if they 
had used it to tie her up. There’s a chair upset as 
if there might have been a struggle. They’ve been 
in the pantry, too, and took off a lot of food. 
There’s things all spilled about as if they packed 
up in a hurry. They’ve carried her oh to the hide- 
hole. That’s where she is—with them.” 

“Where is this hide-hole?” asked Waddy, his 
voice tense and hard. “Take me there at once.” 

“Come on,” said old Matthew. “I’ll show you. 
Is he,” he indicated Blaine, whom he had been re¬ 
garding with unconcealed curiosity, “ coming, too? ” 

“Of course I’m coming,” said Blaine, without 
waiting for Waddy to answer. 

With surprising agility for a man of his years 
old Matthew led them through the yard of his 


BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 


239 

brother’s house, over a stone wall, down a ravine, 
up a hill, through a clump of trees, up a still 
steeper hill by a path so little used that it was all 
but effaced. They climbed steadily for two miles 
or more, the ravine they had crossed becoming al¬ 
most a chasm, with a sheer drop from the hillside of 
a hundred feet or more. At the top of the cliff 
he came to a stop. 

“It’s right down there,” he said, “a cave in the 
side of the cliff. See that path there that breaks 
off right at the rock?” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Waddy, excitedly, leaning over 
the edge of the cliff to see. 

“Well, if you catch hold of that tree there and 
swing yourself out, just around the rock there’s a 
path again, wider and safer, and it leads right up 
to the cave. You can’t see it till you’re right up 
to it, for it’s hid by the trees. It can’t be reached 
from below at all. This is the only way to get to 
it. It’s a wonderful hide-hole. We discovered it 
when we were little shavers and we used to play 
in it. 

Waddy, without waiting for any more explana- 

i 


2 4 o THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

tions, was already on his way down the precipitous 
path with David Blaine close behind him. At the 
tree that old Matthew had indicated, where the 
path broke abruptly off, seizing hold of a stout 
branch he swung himself off into space, twisting 
about the sharp corner of the rock, where he found 
his feet resting on a gradually widening shelf of 
rock that extended along the cliff, a pathway con¬ 
cealed from below by the tops of the trees that 
grew at the bottom of the cliff. Pausing only for 
a second to make sure that Blaine had succeeded 
in negotiating the path, he ran along the cliff 
side looking for the entrance to the cave. Once, 
glancing upward, he caught a glimpse of old Mat¬ 
thew’s bearded face peering excitedly down from 
above. 

For perhaps one hundred and fifty feet he and 
Blaine hurried on, the path gradually widening. 
As yet they had seen no opening in the rock. Sud¬ 
denly, as they pushed aside some branches that 
impeded their path, they found themselves con¬ 
fronted by the huge squat figure of the hunch¬ 
back. He was armed with a heavy bludgeon that 


BUT WHERE WAS ANNE? 


241 


he brandished menacingly as they took a step 
nearer. Waddy, his muscles tense, was set for a 
spring at him even though he realized the peril 
of trying to battle with him on such a narrow foot¬ 
ing. With the slightest misstep either or both of 
them would be plunged to the rocks below. 

“ Get out of here, both of you, or I’ll smash your 
heads,” commanded Amos, roughly. 

“Is Anne here, Anne Sevigne?” asked Waddy, 
sparring for time as he planned an attack that 
would disarm the hunchback. 

From the cave behind there came a frightened 
cry, “Keep them off, Amos. Don’t let them in. 
Don’t let them get me.” 

It was Mark Waddington’s voice. At the sound 
of it the hunchback swung his great club with a 
vicious blow that would have swept Waddy from 
the path, but Waddy, his eye alert for the move¬ 
ment, in a flash had drawn his automatic and aim¬ 
ing at the man’s uplifted arm had fired before the 
blow could fall. 

A surprised look came into the hunchback’s face 
as the club fell harmless from his broken wrist and 


242 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

went crashing down over the rocks. With a 
whimper like that of a wounded animal, he stood 
for a minute staring dumbly after it, and then, 
terror creeping into his face as he realized that he 
was unarmed and helpless, he sprang over the 
cliff-side. 

Without giving his fate a moment’s thought 
Waddy and Blaine together made a rush for the 
entrance to the cave. 


CHAPTER XVII 

AT THE JOURNEY’S END 


F RIEDA PARSONS had been looking for¬ 
ward to the motor trip with her father with 
pleasurable anticipation. On similar jour¬ 
neys occasionally made with him he had always 
proved to be a delightful companion, devoting him¬ 
self whole-heartedly to her entertainment. She 
was confident, too, that she could count to the full¬ 
est of her father’s ability as a strategist to help 
bring Waddy Hurd back to her. 

Yet, once started on the journey, she found her¬ 
self bothered about her father. He did not seem 
himself. His face was gray and drawn as if he 
might have been suffering from loss of sleep, and 
he seemed nervous and distraught. At first Frieda 
had been inclined to attribute his condition to 
worry over her affairs, but as she watched him 


243 


244 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

closely, she decided that there must be something 
else weighing heavily on his mind. 

As he sat silent and morose by her side, she ven¬ 
tured a question or two. 

“Have you heard anything more?” she asked. 

“About what?” he asked, starting nervously 
as she addressed him. 

“About Waddy and that artist person?” 

“Not a word.” 

“Didn’t you get any more reports from the man 
you sent up?” 

“No.” 

Presently, as he relapsed into a moody silence, 
she tried again. 

“What shall we do if Waddy is not there when 
we arrive?” 

“He’ll be there,” said her father, and after that 
for hours they rode along without further con¬ 
versation. Whatever it was that was troubling 
the lawyer he seemed in no mood to take his 
daughter into his confidence. 

Yet when, after several inquiries, they found 
their way to Waddington Towers, it was not 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 245 

Waddy, but Mr. Jessup who greeted them. As 
the car swung through the open gate and came to a 
stop before the porch, Jessup scrambled up sur- 
prisedly from his chair and eyed them curiously. 

“Is Mr. Hurd here?” Parsons asked. “Mr. 
James Waddington Hurd?” 

“He’s here but he isn’t at home,” the old 
man answered, plainly curious as to the new ar¬ 
rivals. 

“I’m Mr. Parsons, his lawyer,” snapped the visi¬ 
tor. “Where can I find him? It is important 
that I see him at once.” 

“So you’re Mr. Parsons,” said the old agent, 
extending his hand. “Well, I am Henry T. 
Jessup. We’ve been writing back and forth a 
great many years. Won’t you get out and come 
in?” 

“This is my daughter, Mr. Jessup,” said the 
lawyer, taking the proffered hand as he got out of 
the motor. Ever alert to seize an opportunity, 
he welcomed the chance of talking things over with 
Jessup before Waddy’s return. It probably would 
be less difficult to learn from Jessup than it would 


246 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

be from Waddy himself just what mysterious 
mission had brought him to Ortonville. 

“ Probably you and your daughter would like to 
wash up a bit after your ride,” said Jessup, hospit¬ 
ably. “I’ll call Mrs. Cupps, the housekeeper.” 

As he vanished within the house on his mission, 
Parsons turned quickly to his daughter. 

“Give me a few minutes alone with him before 
you come down and I’ll get at the bottom of 
things.” 

And presently, reappearing alone on the porch, 
he found Jessup there awaiting him. He pro¬ 
ceeded at once to a cross-examination. 

“Where did you say Mr. Hurd was?” 

“I didn’t say,” answered Jessup, guardedly. He 
was wondering what had brought Parsons up, and, 
recalling the man who had been sent up to shadow 
Waddy, the thought had come to him that Parsons 
might be the person who was having Waddy 
watched, though for what purpose was beyond 
him. Though he had long been in a sense an 
employee of Mr. Parsons, he felt that his duty was 
to the young man himself rather than to his 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 247 

lawyer, and he resolved to say nothing that would 
throw any light on Waddy’s actions. 

“He hasn’t gone away?” Parsons asked. 

“No, he’s about somewhere.” 

“What is he doing?” 

“I couldn’t say.” 

“But you know where he went,” the lawyer in¬ 
sisted, fast losing patience. The strain under 
which he had been ever since Waddy’s visit to the 
office made it difficult for him to control his nerves. 

“Yes and no,” replied Parsons. “I heard him 
say he was going to call on some of his relatives.” 
“Relatives! I didn’t know he had any.” 
“He’s got too many,” said Jessup, “if you ask 

___ ^ 7 ) 

me. 

“ Has he gone to see this woman, Anne Wadding- 
ton, Anne Sevigne, or whatever she calls herself?” 

It was Jessup’s turn to look surprised. He was 
wondering how, if Parsons knew nothing about 
Waddy having any relatives, he could have known 
about Anne Sevigne. It must be Parsons, he de¬ 
cided, who had been responsible for the man who 
had been shadowing Hurd. If that were the case, 


248 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

he felt quite certain that Waddy would approve of 
his throwing Parsons off the track. 

“He went to see a couple of old men—his great- 
uncles they are.” 

“Look here, Jessup,” Mr. Parsons leaned for¬ 
ward in a confidential manner, laying his hand on 
Jessup’s arm, “you have been our agent here for 
many years and should have confidence in me. I 
want you to tell me the whole thing. What is Hurd 
doing here? Is he after the Waddington treasure? ” 

“ The Waddington treasure! ” the old man echoed, 
blankly. “ What’s that? ” 

“Do you mean to say,” said Parsons, entirely 
deceived by his air of innocence, “that you have 
never heard that old Mr. Waddington hid a lot 
of jewels about here somewhere?” 

“Oh, that! There was some talk to that effect 
years ago but though a search was made for them, 
nothing ever came of it.” 

“Was it a search for them that brought Hurd 
up here, do you think?” 

“No,” said Jessup, decisively, “that had nothing 
to do with his coming.” 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 249 

“ Was it the woman, then—this Anne Wadding- 
ton, or whatever her name is?” 

Jessup shook his head. 

“I don’t think he ever laid eyes on her until he 
got here. He didn’t know who she was until I 
told him. She isn’t any real kin of his, you know.” 

If it wasn’t the jewels, and it wasn’t the girl, 
Parsons found himself at an utter loss for a motive 
to account for Waddy’s actions, yet he sensed 
from Jessup’s manner rather than from his words 
that the old man was deliberately withholding 
something, and his anger burst beyond his control. 

“Look here, Jessup,” he said, wrathfully, seizing 
the old man’s shoulder roughly, “look here, I 
want-” 

But his sentence went unfinished. From the 
doorway behind him his daughter rushed out, her 
face pale with fright. 

“Father,” she gasped. 

“What is it?” he asked, springingup in alarm. 
“What’s happened?” 

“There’s a man,” she faltered, her breath coming 
in gasps, “in bed—in one of the rooms upstairs— 



250 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

a man with his head all in bandages. It isn’t— 
Waddy, is it?” 

In amazement, Parsons turned inquiringly to 
Jessup. 

“Good lord, no!” said Jessup. “That’s not 
Mr. Hurd. That’s a friend of his, Mr. Mason, 
Conway Mason.” 

“Conway Mason!” exclaimed Frieda. “What 
is he doing up here?” 

‘‘ What’s happened to him? Has he been hurt? ’’ 
asked Parsons. The complications of the whole 
affair seemed beyond even his acute mind. 

“I should say he had been hurt,” replied Jessup, 
keenly enjoying their bewilderment. “Had his 
whole head pretty near smashed in with an axe, he 
did.” 

“Who struck him—not Waddy?” asked Frieda. 

“No, it wasn’t Mr. Hurd. It was somebody 
trying to kill Mr. Hurd and they smashed Mr. 
Mason by mistake.” 

“Trying to kill Mr. Hurd?” echoed Frieda in 
horror. 

cf Tell us, who did it? Has any one been ar- 


AT THE JOURNEY'S END 251 

rested?" asked Parsons, fearfully. He was won¬ 
dering if the agent he had sent up had become in¬ 
volved in a quarrel with Waddy and had sought 
vengeance on him. 

“ Nobody has been arrested yet," said Jessup. 

I “ Why not? Don't you know who did it? " 

“Mr. Hurd won’t have anybody arrested for it. 
I wanted to call in the constable, but he wouldn't 
let me." 

“Humph," said Parsons, mystified, then as a 
new thought came to him, he asked: 

“Was it the woman—this Anne Waddington— 
who did it?" 

“She was there when it happened," said Jessup, 
mischievously, “but as far as I can gather, she had 
nothing to do with it." 

“But I can't understand," said Frieda,piteously, 
“I'm all mixed up. Who would want to kill 
Waddy Hurd?" 

“I guess this is he coming now," said Jessup, as 
he heard steps approaching from the direction of 

the gate. Yes-" he began, then broke off in 

blank astonishment. 



252 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

Mr. Parsons and Frieda, turning their eyes 
toward the gate at Jessup’s exclamation of sur¬ 
prise, saw a strange-looking procession approach¬ 
ing the house. 

In advance came Waddy Hurd, coatless, carry¬ 
ing tenderly the limp, inert figure of a slender girl. 
Behind them came shambling two frightened faced 
old men, and behind them, apparently acting as a 
sort of rearguard, a younger man whom Parsons 
recognized at once, even though he marvelled at 
his presence in the group. 

“Waddy!” gasped Frieda Parsons with sinking 
heart. There was something about the way in 
which Waddy Hurd strode along that told her jeal¬ 
ous eyes that this girl, her rival, had won. 

“Old Matthew and Mark, walking along to¬ 
gether peaceably! ’ ’ exclaimed the astounded Jessup. 

“Damn Blaine,” muttered Parsons between his 
teeth. “That’s a devil of a way to carry out my 
orders.” 

Waddy alone of all the group assembled at the 
porch seemed wholly unembarrassed at the strange 
situation of which he was the central figure. 


AT THE JOURNEY’S END 253 

“ Hello, everybody,” he called out, cheerfully, 
seemingly not a bit surprised nor discomfited at the 
presence of Frieda Parsons and her father. 
“Everything’s going fine. Just wait a minute 
until I turn this young lady over to Mrs. Cupps 
and I’ll tell you all about it. Parsons, you are the 
very man I was wishing to see. There are a 
couple of deeds I want drawn up right away.” 

He strode into the house, his arms still tenderly 
clasping the slender figure of Anne, but as he 
started with her up the stairs to the second floor he 
found the way barred. 

r 

Before him, her old eyes flashing wrath and resent¬ 
ment, her withered arms outstretched to block his 
passage, stood the little figure of the old caretaker. 

“Mr. Hurd,” she exclaimed, “what is this you 
are doing?—bringing one of them into the house 
they were forbidden to enter.” 

“It’s all right,” he answered, impatiently. “The 
trouble’s all over.” 

“It isn’t right. It can’t be right,” the old 
woman wailed. “Your grandmother’d turn over 
in her grave if she could see this day.” 


254 THE waddington cipher 

As Waddy, brushing her aside, marched boldly 
on to one of the bedrooms, old Mrs. Cupps fol¬ 
lowed, protesting, threatening. 

“No good’ll come of this, Mr. Hurd. It’s 
against your dead grandmother’s last wish. No 
good’ll come of it. She’ll come back and haunt 
the place if that girl stays here. Please, Mr. Hurd, 
please take her away.” 

“Shut up,” commanded Waddy, roughly. 
“Don’t you see that Miss Sevigne is all in?” He 
spied one of the maids down the hall, peeping out 
to see what was going on. “Here,” he called, 
“come here and take charge of Miss Sevigne and 
get her into bed. And you,” he turned sharply 
to old Mrs. Cupps, “you keep away from her. 
Do you understand? She is a guest here and must 
be treated as such.” 

As he turned to lay the girl gently down on the 
t)ed, Anne, rousing herself, smiled weakly up at 
him. 

“I warned him,” Mrs. Cupps muttered under 
her breath. “No good can come of it. He’ll 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A SECRET IS TOLD 

B UT why on earth was she kidnapped? Who 
did it?” asked Mr. Parsons, looking from 
Uncle Matthew to Uncle Mark and then 
to David Blaine. 

“I don’t know,” said Blaine, helplessly. 

“It was the will,” said old Matthew. 

“No, it was the cipher,” objected old Mark. 
All hope that Parsons had had that affairs might 
yet turn out as he hoped had all but vanished 
when he had seen Anne in Waddy’s arms, when he 
had observed his attitude toward her, but he was 
not going to give up without a battle. 

While Waddy was upstairs he was eager to learn 
just what had happened, but the two old men, who 
had seated themselves side by side on the edge of 
the porch, seemed strangely loath to talk, and 
Blaine’s answers were all but incoherent. 


255 


256 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

As a matter of fact, so much had happened, and 
had happened so swiftly in the last half-hour, that 
Blaine’s head was in a whirl, and coming so un¬ 
expectedly into his employer’s presence as he fol¬ 
lowed Waddy Hurd home, he was in a state of 
mental panic. 

“You, Blaine,” commanded Parsons, “you ex¬ 
plain it. Just what happened?” 

“I can’t,” said Blaine, miserably. “I don’t 
know.” 

“I’ll explain it all,” said Waddy, appearing in 
the doorway. He had dispatched the cook to get 
some clothing for Anne, and now for the first time 
had remembered the hunchback. “But first, 
you,” he pointed to Blaine, “go along with the 
butler and show him where to find Amos—the 
hunchback, you know. I expect you’ll find him 
pretty well battered up. I shot him in the wrist 
just before he jumped off the rocks.” 

Blaine, eager to be out of Mr. Parsons’s embar¬ 
rassing scrutiny, hastened to obey, and as he de¬ 
parted, Frieda turned to Hurd. 

“How is the young woman? Is she hurt?” 


A SECRET IS TOLD 


257 

Although she knew that the person she had 
seen Waddy holding in his arms must be Anne 
Sevigne she could not bring herself to say the 
name. 

“Oh, Miss Sevigne’s all right,” said Waddy, his 
eyes lighting up. “She was handled pretty 
roughly and is a bit bruised and one of her ankles 
is sprained, but as soon as she gets a little rest she 
will be fine.” 

“What happened to her?” asked Parsons, eye¬ 
ing him narrowly. 

“It all goes back to a fool will my great-grand¬ 
father made years and years ago. These two old 
chaps here,” he indicated his great-uncles with a 
nod, “had quarrelled. The will directed that if 
they hadn’t made up in forty years they were to 
be turned out of their homes and I was to inherit 
them. Then there were a lot of jewels hid some¬ 
where, too. Naturally Uncle Matthew and Uncle 
Mark, living side by side, and hating each other 
all the time, got all twisted up thinking and worry¬ 
ing. When I came up, they thought I’d come to 
dispossess them, and either one of them would have 


258 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

been glad to have something happen to me. Eh, 
uncles?” 

The two old men, sitting there listening atten¬ 
tively to his narrative, grinned sheepishly and 
nodded. The overwhelming sense of relief that 
had come to them when they found that the dread¬ 
ful thing they had feared all their lives—that they 
might be robbed of their homes—was not to take 
place, had left them strangely apathetic and dazed. 
Forcibly brought together by their masterful 
nephew after forty years of hate, they had found 
themselves after all not hating each other nearly 
as much as they had imagined. Something— 
perhaps it was the visit to the hide-hole where 
they had played together as boys—seemed to have 
wiped out the long years of bitterness between 
them. At any rate, after their years of failure, of 
unsuccessful search for the treasure, they seemed 
content for the time being to leave everything to 
their great-nephew. 

“Well,” Waddy went on, “Uncle Mark got to 
it first. He and old Amos, his servant, invaded 
the house, searching for the treasure. Somehow 





A SECRET IS TOLD 


259 

they mistook Mason for me and he got smashed 
up. The prospect of being arrested frightened them 
so they ran away and hid, but the fact that Miss 
Sevigne had been here in the house and had been 
a witness of their mischief-” 

“But,” interrupted Miss Parsons—there was just 
a suggestion of a slur in her tone—“what was Miss 
Sevigne doing here in your house? Who is she? ” 

Before Hurd could answer the Waddington 
pride unsealed old Mark’s lips. 

“She’s my granddaughter,” he cackled, “that’s 
who she is. She’s my dead son’s step-child. I 
brought her up. Anne Waddington she’s always 
been called though her real name is Sevigne— 
Anne Sevigne.” 

“She followed them to the house,” explained 
Hurd. “She was afraid they were up to some 
mischief.” 

“But what puzzles me,” said Parsons, “is how 
you yourself happened to be here when all these 
things were happening. What brought you up 
here?” 

“I sent for him,” said old Mr. Jessup, tersely. 






26 o THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“Anyhow,” Waddy went on, as Parsons shot an 
angry glance at Jessup, “old Amos, coming back 
to the house at night for food supplies, found Miss 
Sevigne alone there, and decided to carry her off 
and hide her. Uncle Mark knew nothing about 
it—that’s right, isn’t it?” 

“It sure is,” Uncle Mark responded. “It was 
a foolish piece of business and I told him so. 
Amos ain’t much better than a half-wit.” 

“I was to meet Uncle Matthew and her this 
morning,” said Waddy, “and when she wasn’t 
anywhere in the house, I didn’t know what to 
think. You see, there’s a fellow up here sent up 
specially to shadow me, and she had met him the 
evening before.” 

“A man sent up to shadow you!” exclaimed 
Frieda in surprise. “What for?” 

“I haven’t been able to figure it out. I can’t 
understand why on earth any one could be inter¬ 
ested in my movements.” 

“If I were you,” interjected Mr. Jessup, “I’d 
ask Mr. Parsons about that shadowing business. 
He and that fellow that was here just now, that 



A SECRET IS TOLD 261 

stranger in town, seemed to know each other. 
They called each other by name.” 

As Waddy turned an interrogative glance at his 
lawyer, Parsons was mentally cursing his own 
stupidity in having spoken to Blaine, and was 
also mentally cursing Blaine for having fumbled 
on his job. But he managed to reply, “Ell ex¬ 
plain about that later. I do know the man and I 
can guess why he was sent.” 

Satisfied with his statement, Waddy continued: 

“ Neither Uncle Matthew nor this chap knew 
where Miss Sevigne was and Uncle Matthew found 
everything in the house upset, things that looked 
as if she might have been carried off after a struggle, 
and Uncle Matthew was sure he knew where they 
were all hid—in a cave they call the hide-hole— 
so we started out for there. Amos was on guard 
and tried to brain me with a club, so I pinked him 
in the wrist and he jumped off the cliff. In the 
cave I found Uncle Mark and Miss Sevigne, and 
that’s all there is to it.” 

“But I can’t see yet,” said Mr. Jessup, “how 
you got those two old fools together.” 




262 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“It was easy,” Waddy grinned. “I did just 
what I said I was going to do. When Uncle Mark 
got up to the top of the cliff, I grabbed them both, 
and told them I’d knock their heads together if 
they didn’t shake hands. I told them I would 
make out deeds for their land to-day, so they de¬ 
cided to quit and make up.” 

“But don’t forget,” piped up Uncle Matthew, 
apprehensively, “you promised us each a third of 
the jewels.” 

“Yes,” said Uncle Mark, “a full third.” 

“Sure, that goes,” said Waddy. “The minute 
we find them we’ll divide them up. Now you two 
old chaps go and talk things over, and come back 
here, say at eight o’clock to-night. By that time, 
Mr. Parsons and Mr. Jessup will have the deeds 
drawn up and Miss Sevigne will be rested up 
enough to talk and we’ll have a grand family con¬ 
clave. If we all put our heads together I have an 
idea we can soon locate the hiding-place of the 
Waddington jewels. Jessup, you had better go 
down to your office and bring up all the necessary 
papers. I’m going to get cleaned up a bit.” 


A SECRET IS TOLD 263 

As they all departed, Frieda and her father, for 
the first time since Waddy’s return, had an op¬ 
portunity for a word together alone. 

“Father, 5 ’ said the girl, desperately, “get me 
away from here at once. 55 

“We can’t go, 55 said Parsons, doggedly. “Hurd 
wants me to stay to draw up those papers. 55 

“But, Father, 55 the girl cried, “we must go. I 
just can’t stay. 55 

“You must stay, 55 he said, turning a haggard 
face toward her. “You’ve got to win Waddy 
Hurd away from that girl. You can do it, I 
know. You must do it, I tell you. You must, 
for my sake!” 

Concerned though Frieda was with the collapse 
of her own ambitions, she found herself even more 
perturbed by the sudden change in her father. 

“Why, Father,” she exclaimed. “What do 
you mean? I don’t understand.” 

A queer, furtive look came into the lawyer’s 
face. To his daughter, studying him apprehen¬ 
sively, it seemed that he had all at once turned into 
an old, old man. 


264 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Come,” he whispered, “let’s take a walk. 
Let’s get away from the house. We can’t tell who 
may be listening to us. There is something I want 
to tell you.” 

Vastly puzzled by his manner, she assented, and 
as soon as they were well out of hearing of the 
house he began at once with a fervent plea to her 
to try to win back Hurd’s affections. 

“Don’t you see, Father,” she said, listlessly, 
“that it is hopeless—utterly hopeless. He is mad 
about that girl. It is too late.” 

“Listen, girl,” said her father, his hand clench¬ 
ing her arm desperately as he drew her down to a 
seat beside him on a fallen log. 

For a long time he talked to her in broken 
whispers, and at what her father told her there 
came into her eyes a look of utter amazement, of 
incredulity, and then of horror. On and on her 
father talked, and still the look in her eyes re¬ 
mained. 

“Please, Frieda,” he begged, “think what it 
means. There are only the two of us. We must 
stand together.” 



A SECRET IS TOLD 


265 

“Yes,” she said and her voice was hard, un¬ 
forgiving, “there are only two of us, and you should 
have thought about me.” 

“ But you must,” he urged. “ It is the only way 
out.” 

She listened in stony silence as a flood of words 
poured forth from her father, as he commanded, 
begged, urged, pleaded. There was in her much 
of her mother, much of the stern, uncompromising 
Scandinavian attitude of mind, much of the rugged 
native honesty. The specious pleas that her father 
was making repelled her, and yet her affections 
made her accede to his wishes. After all, except 
for him, she was utterly alone in the world. Of 
a naturally reserved temperament, she had few 
real friends. There had been only her father—and 
Waddy, and Waddy was lost to her for ever. 

“Leave me alone,” she said at last, “I want to 
think; I must think.” 

* \ 

“You will try?” he begged. “At least you will 

stay here a day or two longer, promise me that? 

1 

I’ll find a way out.” 

“Yes,” she assented after a moment’s thought, 


266 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


“ I will promise that much. I will stay if you wish 
me to.” 

So he left her there, sitting alone on the fallen 
log, alone with the wreck of her brightest hopes, 
alone with the bitterest thoughts she ever had 
known, alone with a shame such as she never had 
thought possible, and with dulled eyes she watched 
him as he stumbled weakly away from her, all at 
once a broken, despairing old man, and as she 
watched the resentment in her heart gradually 
gave way to pity. 

When she started back to the house, the dusk of 
evening already was descending, and her mind 
was not yet made up. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE 

I N THE great wide hall of Waddington Towers, 
its even time shadows made if anything more 
sinister and depressing by the flickering light 
of many tall candles, a strange assemblage was 
gathered—the family conclave that James Wad¬ 
dington Hurd had set his heart upon. Looking 
down dourly on the guests was the faded portrait 
of the mansion’s builder, whose whimsical will, 
so carefully drawn full forty years before, had 
started all the trouble. Gleaming dully in the 
plaster above their heads, in the plaster above the 
hall’s great fireplace, were the three gilded links 
that years before had formed the sign of which 
the silversmith was justly proud. 

At a long table, an array of legal papers, sur¬ 
veyors’ maps, and musty deeds spread before them, 
sat Elwood Parsons and Henry T. Jessup, checking 

267 



268 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


over the twin quit-claim deeds they just had 
finished drawing up. On the other side of the 
table, like two hungry waiting ravens, sat the two 
aged sons of James Waddington, Matthew and 
Mark, at last outwardly in accord, both of them 
in honour of the occasion arrayed in their long- 
unused, dingy-looking frock coats of a long-forgot¬ 
ten pattern, and about their necks the quaint 
black silken stocks of an older generation. 

Yet, though the deeds were agreed to and were 
being signed, over these four men there hung a 
depressing pall of suspicion and distrust. 

Toward the fireplace, where some great logs 
had been set ablaze to dispel the evening chill, 
the atmosphere seemed more cheerful. There, in 
a great easy chair, heaped with quaint embroidered 
cushions, sat Anne Sevigne, to all appearances none 
the worse for her adventure of the night before. 
Hovering near her, as the business of transferring 
the two homes to the old brothers went on, was 
Waddy, eager to have the papers completed and 
get on to the next part of his programme. 

Conway Mason was not present. Although he 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE 269 

was rapidly recovering, he was still confined to 
bed. Nor was David Blaine in evidence. Mr. 
Parsons, late that afternoon, after profanely be¬ 
rating him for having ignominiously failed in carry¬ 
ing out his mission, had directed his immediate 
return to New York. Parsons had in fact been 
so anxious to get him out of the way that he had 
hired a village automobile to carry him eighteen 
miles across country that he might catch a New 
York train. Frieda Parsons also was missing 
from the group, although Waddy a few minutes 
before had given her a cordial invitation to be 
present. 

“ It’ll be quite exciting,” he had said. “ As soon 
as the deeds are out of the way, I am going to or¬ 
ganize a jewel-hunt.” 

“You must excuse me,” she had said, wearily. 
“After all, it does not in any way concern me. It 
is purely a family matter.” 

“But we’d all be delighted to have you,” Waddy 
had urged, although he coloured a little, sensing 
in her remark a subtle reference to their changed 
relations. Although she had said nothing to him 


270 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

about Anne, and although he had striven to appear 
on as friendly and as cordial terms with Frieda as 
ever, he guiltily sensed that her woman’s intuition 
had read what was in his heart. Though between 
them there never had been any formal declaration, 
he knew that Frieda was in love with him, and he 
realized that she had been expecting him some day 
to propose to her. Down in his heart he realized 
that the responsibility for her feelings toward him 
' was his. He was sorry that it was so. He hated to 
hurt Frieda, but ever since the night of his birth¬ 
day party, his own heart had told him, had kept 
telling him insistently, that there was but one wom¬ 
an in the world for him. Whenever he thought 
about Anne, there were a finality and inevitability 
about his thoughts of her that completely possessed 
him. 

Frieda, sensing the depth of his infatuation for 
Anne, found it torture to be in his society. As 
soon as she could she had got away to her room, 
where she had flung herself wearily on the bed. 
The blow to her pride and to her affections was 
disturbing enough in itself, and right on its heels 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE 


271 

had come that astounding, shameful revelation 
that her father—the father that she always had 
trusted with an unwavering trust—had made to 
her. She could realize, too, as she thought it all 
over, the viewpoint that he had presented to her, 
that it was imperative for him—and for her own 
future as well—that she should employ all her 
woman’s wiles to win back Waddy’s affections. 
That, too, was the course her own pride bade her 
take. Only that very evening, a few minutes be¬ 
fore she had talked with Waddy, she had half 
promised her father that she would accede to his 

t 

wishes, and yet- 

Her nerves all on edge, she lay there alone until 
the very darkness drove her to rise quickly and 
open the door into the hall. Looking about on 
the dimly lit upper floor she could see nor hear 
nothing to alarm her, so leaving the door slightly 
ajar, she crept back to bed again. 

Meanwhile, downstairs, the papers at last all 
signed, Waddy had taken affairs in charge. 

“Our next step,” he said, “is to discover the 
hiding-place of the jewels my great-grandfather 





272 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

kept in this house. I am sure that if we each tell 
what we know about them, and explain our theor¬ 
ies as to what he might have done with them, be¬ 
fore we get through we’ll find the hiding-place. 
But first I’m going to call in Mrs. Cupps.” 

As the old housekeeper entered the room and sat 
gingerly on the edge of one of the chairs, if malig¬ 
nant looks could have killed, there would have 
been three corpses in the room. Her eyes fairly 
blazed resentment and wrath as she saw Uncle 

i 

Matthew, Uncle Mark, and Anne all present in the 
premises she had for so many years sacredly 
guarded against them. 

“Mrs. Cupps,” began Waddy, “you’ve heard 
about those jewels. Did old Mr. Waddington 
ever by any chance say anything to you about 
them? Did he tell you where he had hid them?” 
! Her lips closed tightly. She cocked her head to 
one side in that strange way she had of seeming to 
listen apprehensively for some inaudible sound. 
She shot a defiant glance at the two old brothers. 
< “Come, Mrs. Cupps,” urged Waddy, “speak 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE 


273 

“Mr. Waddington,” she said, speaking slowly, 
“never told anybody anything/' 

“Then you know nothing that would help us 
find those jewels?” 

“Help them /” 

There was venom in the glance she shot at her 
two old enemies. 

“Help me,” corrected Waddy, adding sternly, 
“remember this is my house now.” 

Quickly the old woman recovered herself. 

“There’s nothing, Mr. Hurd. Nothing that I 
can tell,” she said. 

“That’s all, then,” said Waddy. “You may 
go.” Despite her denial, he had the impression 
that she was keeping something back, but he real¬ 
ized that it would be better to question her when 
the visitors had gone. He turned to his two great- 
uncles. 

“ Can either of you give us any clue to the hiding- 
place? Have you any suggestions to offer?” 

“If I ever had found out where they were, I’d 
have had them long ago,” confessed Uncle Mat¬ 
thew quite honestly. 


274 THE waddington cipher 

“The same here,” echoed Uncle Mark. 

“The minute I read James Waddington’s will,” 
said Waddy, taking up a copy of the document 
from the table, “I conceived the notion that the 
concluding paragraph and the verse that follows 
were a sort of cipher—that they contain some clue 
to where the jewels are concealed.” 

“Sure,” said Uncle Matthew, and Mark and 
Jessup nodded in agreement. 

Slowly and distinctly Waddy read the passage 
aloud: 

“And finally I do give and bequeath to each of my be¬ 
loved children, a golden token, which will be found in a 
drawer in my secretary, these being replicas of the three 
golden finks that for many years formed the sign at my 
place of business, the originals having by me been set in 
the mantelpiece of Waddington Towers. 

“When these be joined in unity 
To make a perfect chain, 

The pathway to prosperity 
Will be exceeding plain.” 

“Sure, it’s a cipher,” said Uncle Mark, “and 
everybody knows a perfect chain is a hundred feet 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE- 275 

0 

long, but where are you going to start measuring 
from?” 

“A perfect chain is only sixty-six feet long,” 
began Uncle Matthew, hotly, ready to take up the 
old controversy again. 

“Wait,” cried Anne, excitedly, “wait! I have 
an idea. The will says that he left each of you a 
golden token. Have you yours, grandfather?” 

“Sure, I have,” said Mark Waddington, draw¬ 
ing from his pocket an oval gold object about two 
inches in its greatest dimension. “I’ve always 
carried it as a luck-piece, though small luck it has 
brought me.” 

As the girl took it from his extended hand she 
turned to the elder brother. 

“And yours? Where is yours?” 

From his pocket Matthew Waddington produced 
a similar trinket. Carefully Anne inspected them 
both, giving a delighted exclamation as she studied 
the reverse side. 

“There’s something engraved here,” she cried, 
“but it is so worn away I can hardly make it out.” 

“It’s just father’s motto,” explained Mark. 


276 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Tush and Pull’ it reads. He was always saying 
that push and pull would get you anything.’’ 

“It’s the same on both,” said Anne, her face 
now ablaze with excitement as she turned to 
Waddy Hurd. 

“There were three of these tokens. Where is 
yours? Have you it?” 

Into Hurd’s face came a look of blank astonish¬ 
ment as his hand went into his pocket. 

“Why, of course I have,” he cried, “but I never 
realized before, not until this very minute, what it 
was. My father always used to carry it as a pocket 
piece and before that I can remember my grand¬ 
mother wearing it as a breast-pin. See, you can 
see the place where the pin and clasp used to be. 
It’s just the same as the others except that a thin 
plate of gold has been added to the reverse side for 
backing.” 

“Let me have it,” said Anne, eagerly. 

Taking the trinket from his hand she began a 
minute inspection of it, turning it this way and 
that, pressing it here and there if as in search of a 
hidden spring. All at once there was a little click 


A FAMILY CONCLAVE 


277 

and the gold plate fell away from the back, leaving 
it a link identical with the others, except for the 
fact, as Anne announced, that the legend on it read 

“Pull and Push.” 

“Hurrah,” she cried, “at last we’ve got it. We 
have the cipher.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Waddy, as his two 
old great-uncles crowded eagerly forward to stare 
blankly at the three links that Anne had laid in 
a row, face down, on the arm of her chair. Parsons 
and Jessup, too, infected by the general excitement, 
came closer. 

“Remember,” she cried, exultantly, “how that 
first line reads, right after the paragraph that tells 
of the three tokens—‘when these be joined in 
unity’—Well, here they are at last.” 

She pointed significantly to the three links in a 
row: 


i 

“I must be stupid,” said Waddy, “I can’t get 
what you are driving at.” 










278 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“Don’t you see/’ she answered, “to find the 
jewels all you have to do is to follow the directions 
given here—push and pull, pull and push, push 
and pull.” 

“But where?” asked the puzzled Waddy. 
“Where?” 

“There, of course, stupid,” said Anne, trium¬ 
phantly, pointing above her head to the three 
larger finks set in the plaster of the mantel. 
“That’s where the jewels are hid, of course.” 


CHAPTER XX 


THE CIPHER SOLVED 

I T DID not occur to any of them to doubt the 
correctness of Anne’s deductions. The three 
smaller links, arranged in a row like those in 
the mantel above them, identical as they were in 
aspect, lent plausibility to her theory. Put side by 
side for the first time in forty years it seemed 
obvious to everyone that the legend on the reverse 
side spelled a message. 

As Waddy sprang forward and began energeti¬ 
cally pressing on the central link, his two great- 
uncles, with marvellous nimbleness for their age, 
hastened to join him and began similar efforts to 
push in the end links. 

“And to think,” groaned Uncle Matthew, “that 
they’ve been here all this time right under our very 
eyes.” 

For several minutes the three of them worked 


279 


28 o THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


frantically, trying by main strength to push the 
links farther into the plaster, but their efforts 
seemed futile. 

“ Nothing seems to give,” said Waddy, dis¬ 
appointedly. “They seem to be set in solidly.” 

“Wait,” said Anne, “let’s read the directions 
again. Maybe you have been pushing them in 
the wrong direction. Maybe they slide. Try 
pushing them sideways.” 

As Waddy bent over the smaller links, re-reading 
the words engraved on them, Uncle Matthew, still 
pushing desperately at his end of the mantel, fol¬ 
lowed Anne’s advice and with all the force he 
could muster in his old fingers began pressing the 
curved surface of the gilded link in the direction 
away from the others. He did not succeed in 
moving it. 

“Try pushing it toward the others,” suggested 
Anne as she watched him. “Mr. Waddington 

wanted the three links closer together, didn’t 
he?” 

Obediently the old man did as she had suggested, 
pushing on the link in the direction of the central 


THE CIPHER SOLVED 281 

one. As he did so a shrill cry of delight escaped 
him. 

“It's giving a little,” he cried, joyously. “It’s 
sliding.” 

Abruptly the other two stopped to watch. The 
great gilded link propelled by his eager fingers did 
really appear to be sliding sideways. Suddenly 
one end of it swung out for an inch or two as if it 
might have been pivoted on some sort of a hinge in 
the centre. Getting his fingers under the edge of 
it the old man pulled and tugged at it desperately 
but it would not be budged any farther. 

“Wait,” cried Waddy. “Maybe it is balanced 
with the fink on the other side, and the two of 
them serve as a sort of a lock to keep the central 
link in place. Try yours, Uncle Mark.” 

As avidly as his brother had done, old Mark 
began pressing inward on the fink on his side of 
the mantel. It, too, began sliding, and as it 
gave a little he seized it and jerked it sharply out¬ 
ward, but, like the other fastened by a pivot, it 
came only so far and no farther. But the central 
link, the one before which Waddy was standing, 


282 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


as its mates were moved, swung forward a little, 
as if it might be pivoted horizontally. Catching 
his fingers under the link’s edge Waddy strove to 
pull it out farther, but it seemed immovable. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” warned Anne. “On 
the middle link the direction reads, ‘Push and 
pull. ’ ” 

Reversing his tactics Waddy gave the upper 
edge of the link a sharp inward push. There was 
a click, as if some hidden catch had been released, 
and the whole link moved outward a little dis¬ 
tance. 

“Now,” said Anne, who had been excitedly 
watching his movements, “pull.” 

Waddy gave the central link a quick jerk. Out 
it came, so quickly, so easily, for a distance of 
nearly two feet, that it all but caused him to lose 
his balance, revealing behind it a shallow drawer of 
polished wood, in which there rested, its key be¬ 
side it, a metal casket. 

“It’s the jewels,” cried Mr. Jessup. “It’s the 
very identical box he kept them in when he showed 
them to Dad and me over forty years ago. There’s 


THE CIPHER SOLVED 283 

diamonds and rubies and pearls inside, heaps of 
them. I saw them with my own eyes.” 

For just a second Waddy and his two old rela¬ 
tives stood staring dazedly at the box, then into 
the faces of the two older men crept a cunning look 
of greed. With an angry snarl, such as a beast 
might make, they dove forward together into the 
drawer in an effort to seize the precious casket, but 
Waddy was too quick for them. Thrusting them 
roughly aside with his powerful arms he picked up 
the box, and holding them back despite their 
wrathful protests, he laid it in Anne Sevigne’s 
lap. 

“It was Miss Sevigne,” said Waddy, proudly, 
“whose brains solved the cipher. Certainly she 
is entitled to be the first to open the treasure 
chest.” 

Smiling up at him, Anne took the key and in¬ 
serted it in the brass padlock that fastened the lid. 
With their bodies trembling in anticipation, their 
clutching fingers hardly able to restrain them¬ 
selves, their greedy faces bent far down to catch 
the first glimpse of the treasure, the two old 


284 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

Waddingtons waited in uneasy suspense. Peer¬ 
ing over their shoulders were Parsons and Jessup, 
almost equally excited although they anticipated 
having no share in the jewels. 

Hours seemed to elapse as Anne struggled with 
the key, but at last it turned in the lock, and she 
flung back the lid. 

A howl of agonized disappointment came in 
unison from the two old brothers, and a puzzled 
expression crossed the faces of the other onlookers. 
The top tray, velvet lined, bearing many marks 
where something hard had rested—was empty. 

Uncertainly Anne lifted out the tray, as the anx¬ 
ious waiting eyes peered down into her lap, and 
looked beneath. The second tray, too, was empty. 

“My God,” groaned Waddy, watching fas¬ 
cinatedly, “they’re gone!” 

As the third and last tray was lifted out, and 
the bottom of the box inspected, a depressing si¬ 
lence fell on them all. There was nothing there. 
The Waddington jewels had vanished. 

“It’s mighty queer,” said Mr. Jessup. “There 
isn’t any question about it. That must have been 



THE CIPHER SOLVED 285 

the place where the old man hid the jewels. Who 
could have taken them?” 

At the suggestion that someone had taken them, 
the two old Waddingtons, their faces flushed 
with anger, shot suspicious glances at each other, 
at everyone present. In their bitter disappoint¬ 
ment all the poison of their years of hating swept 
back afresh into their veins. 

“Fm through—through with all of you,” cried 
old Matthew, passionately. “It’s a dirty trick to 
play on an old man. Someone has got them. 
Some one of you has them. When I find out which 
one it is, I’ll get them away from him if I have to 
kill him. I’m the oldest living son. Those 
jewels are mine, mine by right, I say.” 

With one last vengeful suspicious look about, he 
seized his hat and made for the door, flinging him¬ 
self out of the house, muttering curses as he went. 
Uncle Mark, pausing to pick up the empty trays 
and study them regretfully, with a black look that 
took in all present, a moment later followed his 
brother’s example. 

“What a nice, pleasant, family party,” laughed 



286 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


Waddy, the ridiculous side of it all striking him. 

“ Who could possibly-?” began Mr. Parsons, 

but his sentence was cut short. 

From the upper floor came a shrill scream fol¬ 
lowed by an agonized cry—a girl’s cry of terror. 

“Father, Father, where are you?” 

Mr. Parsons, dashing up the stairs with the 
others close behind him, ran to the bedroom oc¬ 
cupied by his daughter. They found Frieda 
huddled in hysteria just inside the open door. 

“What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Par¬ 
sons as he bent anxiously over her. 

“There was something”—she paused, shivering 
violently—“something that looked like a ghost. 
It came right along the hall, a figure all in gray, 
carrying a candle. It was mumbling to itself and 
was holding up a string of pearls.” 

“My dear,” said the lawyer, soothingly, “you’ve 
been dreaming. It was only a nightmare.” 

“I wasn’t asleep. I saw it, I tell you,” the girl 
persisted. 

“Where did you see it?” asked Waddy. 

“It passed right by my door,” said Frieda, re- 





THE CIPHER SOLVED 287 

covering a little as she found herself surrounded 
by friends, and the upper hall’s mysterious at¬ 
mosphere removed by the lights they were carry¬ 
ing. “It was so dark and creepy up here that I 
left my door open. I was lying on the bed in the 
dark wide awake, and I saw it passing. I tell 
you I really did.” 

“Let’s look around,” said Mr. Jessup, seemingly 
impressed by her narrative. 

And as Frieda’s father and Anne got her back to 
bed and tried to soothe her, Jessup and Waddy 
made a thorough search of the upper floor. In the 
front room Conway Mason had slept peacefully 
through it all, and the butler, who had been im¬ 
pressed as Mason’s night nurse, and had been sit¬ 
ting by his bedside, insisted that he had heard or 
seen nothing until he had heard Frieda screaming. 
In the room opposite and in the other rooms in the 
main part of the building there was nothing sus¬ 
picious to be found. The commotion apparently 
had not reached the rooms in the wing occupied 
by Mrs. Cupps and the servants, for they found 
the old housekeeper asleep in bed and the other 


288 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


servants all in their rooms. Nowhere could they 
discover any evidence of any nocturnal prowler. 

“ Probably her father was right,” said Waddy as 
they reluctantly abandoned the search. “She 
must have dreamed it.” 

“I don’t know,” said Jessup, shaking his head 
dubiously. “It’s funny that two of them should 
have the same dream—a figure in gray, carrying a 
pearl necklace-rthe missing Waddington pearls.” 


i. 



CHAPTER XXI 


DISCOVERED-THE GHOST 

I T WAS the next day’s end, a most dissatisfy¬ 
ing day for all concerned. It had even put 
a damper on Waddy Hurd’s usually exuber¬ 
ant spirits, for everything that he had attempted 
apparently had turned out wrong. His two old 
great-uncles seemingly had renewed their ancient 
feud right where they had left it off. Mrs. Cupps, 
still wrathful at him for having admitted her ene¬ 
mies into the house, all day long had gone about 
muttering to herself. Waddy himself had spent 
practically the whole day looking about Wadding- 
ton Towers, trying to find some clue to what had 
become of his great-grandfather’s treasure. When, 
wearied of his futile search, he had tried to make 
love to Anne Sevigne, she had sternly repelled him. 
“You mustn’t,” she had insisted. “I won’t 

listen. I can’t. All my life I have lived under 

* 

289 



THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 


290 

the black shadow of this family fight. I can have 
no peace of mind until this silly feud is ended, till 
the jewels are found and divided and everything’s 
settled.” 

“And then?” said Waddy, hopefully. 

“Don’t bother me,” said Anne. “I’m busy. If 
you must make love to someone, there’s Miss 
Parsons. She is mad about you.” 

“Frieda! In love with me!” cried Waddy. 
“Absurd. We’re just old friends, that’s all. I 
have loved you ever since that night at my party.” 

v 

“And I—” began Anne, but she checked herself, 
and ended the sentence far differently from what 
she almost had let slip—“can think of nothing else 
but what could have happened to those jewels.” 

It had been on her lips to tell Waddy that long 
before he had ever even heard of her existence he 
had been the hero of her dreams, but she couldn’t. 
She never must let him know that in the days when 
she was a lonely little girl, living a drab existence 
with her bitter old step-grandfather in one of the 
twin houses of hate, she used to comfort herself by 
pretending that James Waddington Hurd was her 



DISCOVERED—THE GHOST 291 

faithful knight, and to play that some day he 
would return to Waddington Towers and carry 
her off and then they would live happily ever 
afterward. He must never know that the real 
reason she had returned to Ortonville was not to 
help David Blaine, but in the hope of meeting 
him. 

“I’ve given up hope of ever finding those jewels 
now/’ said Waddy. “I haven’t the slightest idea 
where they might be or who took them.” 

“They’ll turn up somewhere,” said Anne, con¬ 
fidently. “They must be found. The feud will 
never be settled until they are.” 

Mr. Parsons and Frieda all day long had been 
keeping to themselves, and after supper when the 
lawyer had set out for the village to do some tele¬ 
phoning to the city, Frieda had accompanied him. 
All day they had been arguing without reaching 
any agreement, and she started off with her father, 
determined to have it out with him, to tell him once 
and for all that she could not do as he wished, 
that he must find his own way out of his predica¬ 
ment. Every hour that she had remained in 


292 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

Waddington Towers—hours of torture for her 
they were, as she jealously watched Waddy and 
Anne Sevigne—had convinced her of the utter 
futility of any effort on her part to win the young 
man back. In a most despondent mood, as they 
walked toward the village, she had announced her 
decision. Annoyed by his vehement protests, she 
had left him, and turning about had come back 
to the Towers. 

Unaware that she had returned and that the 
open window before which she happened to be 
sitting on the dark porch carried every word of 
their conversation to her ears, Anne and Waddy, 
in the living room, began once more discussing 
with Mr. Jessup the disappearance of the jewels. 

“I’ve been thinking it over all day,” said Mr. 
Jessup, “and I know who it is that has them.” 

“Who?” cried Anne and Waddy in astonish¬ 
ment, while Frieda, outside, not wishing to eaves¬ 
drop, rose from her seat and started to move softly 
away. She stopped abruptly, however, as she 
overheard Mr. Jessup’s answer, given with strong 
conviction. 



DISCOVERED—THE GHOST 


293 


“Elwood Parsons.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Waddy. 

“Why do you suspect him?” asked Anne. 

Frieda sank back in her chair and sat there 
tensed, listening, anxious to hear every word. 

“When you put two and two together,” insisted 
Jessup, “it’s as plain as the nose on your face. 
There’s nothing to show when the jewels were taken 
out of that metal box. They might have been 
taken away yesterday, and then again somebody 
might have taken them forty years ago just after 
the old man passed out. I got to thinking who 
there was that had had a chance to get at them, 
and it narrowed down to two people: Mrs. Cupps 
—and of course it wouldn’t be her—and Elwood 
Parsons.” 

“But when would Parsons have had a chance to 
get them?” asked Waddy. “He had never been 
in the house till yesterday.” 

“Oh, yes, he has,” said Jessup, quickly. “I 
couldn’t place him at first. I had had a lot of 
correspondence with him, but I was sure we’d never 
met. Yet his face seemed familiar to me. All at 


2 9 4 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

once it came back to me. Elwood Parsons came 
up here forty years ago escorting your grand¬ 
mother when she came to the funeral. He was 
here in the house two nights then. He was just a 
poor young law clerk then. He’s a rich man now. 
Where did he get his start? It was from those 
jewels, I tell you.” 

“That’s all bosh,” said Waddy, hotly. “I’m 
not going to let you say things like that about 
Parsons. He was my father’s lawyer for years. I 
have implicit confidence in him.” 

“That’s more than he has in you. It was he 
that sent that young man up here to shadow you, 
if you want to know it. Your coming up here 
worried him. He was afraid you’d find out about 
his having taken the jewels, so he sent a man up 
here to watch what you were doing here.” 

“That part is true,” said Anne. “I happen to 
know that it was Mr. Parsons who arranged to 
have you shadowed. I know the man he sent. 
David Blaine. He is a clerk in Mr. Parsons’s 
office.” 

“ I can’t understand that,” said Waddy. “ But, 


DISCOVERED—THE GHOST 


295 

anyhow, I trust Parsons. Whatever he may have 
done, Parsons is no thief.” 

“ You’re wrong, Mr. Hurd,” said Frieda, sud¬ 
denly appearing in the room. “My father is a 
thief.” 

Her innate honesty had at last triumphed in the 
long battle she had been having with herself. 
That there was only one way out, was her final 
decision. Waddy must be told everything, re¬ 
gardless of consequences. 

As the trio stared at her in astonishment she 
went on steadily, speaking in a lifeless voice, her 
pale cheeks flushed. 

“My father, Mr. Hurd, has plundered your es¬ 
tate of nearly two hundred thousand dollars. It 
is all gone, hopelessly gone, lost in speculation, 
spent in living beyond our means. He could not 
understand your coming up here so unexpectedly, 
and fearful that you had discovered his defalcation 
and were beginning an investigation, he sent a 
man up to watch you. He had it all planned out 
that I was to marry you, so that his thefts never 
would become public, although, of course,” she 


296 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

lifted her head with something of her old pride, 
“that would have been impossible. When I 
knew what he had done, I would not have con¬ 
sented, even if-” 

7 . 1 ^ 

She nodded significantly toward Anne, and then, 
her strength deserting her, she sank sobbing into a 
chair, crying out, “But my father didn’t take the 
jewels. I know he didn’t.” 

“There, there, Frieda, don’t cry,” said Waddy, 
his own voice breaking as he spoke to her. “It’s 
all right. It doesn’t matter. I shan’t do any¬ 
thing about it. It is really my own fault. I 
should have looked after my affairs more closely.” 

The girl’s revelation had been a shock to him. 
The fact that he had been robbed seemed nothing. 
The tragedy of it, in Waddy’s eyes, was losing con¬ 
fidence in a man he had implicitly trusted. More 
money meant nothing to Waddy Hurd. He al¬ 
ways had had all that he needed of it. What 
were a few figures more or less in a ledger? At 
any rate, only one thing mattered to him now— 
Anne. He must have Anne. 

“Don’t cry, Frieda,” he said, patting her head 



DISCOVERED—THE GHOST 297 

gently. “I’m not going to have your father ar¬ 
rested.” 

“Do you think I care about that?” she cried, 
fiercely, raising her face and looking about wildly. 
“What difference would that make? What differ¬ 
ence would anything make? The thing I can’t 
ever escape—not ever in all my life—is the terrible 
knowledge that my father, my father whom I 
loved and trusted, has been a thief. But he didn’t 
take the jewels, I tell you. He didn’t.” 

As she spoke the last words she looked de¬ 
fiantly, challengingly at Anne and Jessup. 

“Miss Parsons is right,” said Anne, calmly. 
“Mr. Parsons had nothing to do with taking them. 
I know where they are. Only a few minutes ago 
I discovered the ghost.” 

“Who?” 

“Where?” 

“Who is it?” 

Question after question was volleyed at her by 
Waddy and Jessup, and even Frieda, for the mo¬ 
ment, forgetting her own troubles, dried her tears 
and sat up to listen. 


298 THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

“ Come with me,” said Anne, and as Waddy and 
Jessup followed her, she led the way out the back 
door and around to the side of the house, where a 
ladder she had placed against an apple tree reached 
up almost to a window on the second floor, a 
lighted window in the wing that was partly open. 

“ Climb up there and look,” whispered Anne, 
and Waddy, moving up the ladder noiselessly, 
gasped in astonishment at what he saw. 

There, preening before a mirror, her nightgown 
turned back from her withered neck, and a great 
pearl necklace adorning it, her wrinkled fingers 
alive with sparkling gems, and others heaped on 
the dresser before her, sat old Mrs. Cupps, mum¬ 
bling to herself, pausing every once in a while with 
head cocked as if she were listening. 

Straining his ears, Waddy could catch something 
of what she was saying, “My pretties. They 
thought they’d take you away from me after all 
these years, me the only one that knew where 
they were hid, me that watched and saw the old 
gentleman putting them away. Me that’s been 
watching and guarding them all these years, and 


DISCOVERED—THE GHOST 299 

wearing them all and nobody the wiser. They’re 
mine, mine, mine, my pretties, my treasures.” 

It was too pitiable a tragedy to watch for long. 
Waddy, depressed at the sight, yet delighted that 
at last the mystery was solved, swung down the 
ladder to let Jessup have his turn. 

“ She’s mad, of course,” whispered Anne. “ Liv¬ 
ing alone in this gloomy old house with her guilty 
secret has turned her brain. The shock of our 
finding the drawer in the mantel-piece was too 
much for her and has upset her completely.” 

“But how did you come to suspect her?” 

“ I just had to find those jewels to be happy, and 
—well, there was no one else to suspect.” 

“You’ve found the jewels,” cried Waddy. 
“You’re happy, so then-” 

He turned impulsively toward her. It was a 
warm June evening. They were alone there in 
the orchard in the darkness, save for Jessup still 
up the ladder, peering into the window. 

“Then?” he repeated, softly. 

“Yes,” said the girl, bravely. 

And old Mr. Jessup, climbing stiffly down the 




3 oo THE WADDINGTON CIPHER 

ladder, eager to talk about what he had seen, 
found them so absorbed with each other that 
they seemed oblivious to his presence. With a 
warning shake of his head, he turned away, re¬ 
marking aloud—“Well, I’ll be dumbed.” 


THE END 









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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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